Latin Assholes and Dickish Teachers
by Cawaiiey
Summary: For tinkerlu's Spanish Karkat and Teacher Dave AU! It's another year of teaching for 30-year-old Dave Strider and he's expecting it to be the same routine as last year. Karkat decides to take Music Appreciation because why the fuck not? Turns out that that might have been the best/worst decision of his life. Suspected at 12 chapters, going to be updated biweekly!
1. Chapter 1

**theres something about him**

The first day of school is always the worst.

You wake up with a splitting headache and wonder why you were still teaching when it was only supposed to be something to do while you tried to make it big as a movie producer. It paid the bills, sure, but it was hell to have to wake up at five o'clock every morning just to go and stay in one building, teaching bratty kids until 1:30 just to have to stay late and grade. It was repetitious and unrelenting. The cycle quickly became monotonous and taxing. In short, it was _boring. _You wanted the fast paced life, the one with parties every other night and red carpet walks, the life filled with one-night stands and gorgeous people. But you could only watch that life from afar. No one was interested in your masterpiece, Sweet Bro and Hella Jeff. It seemed like you were going to be stuck teaching for a while.

You heaved a sigh and pushed yourself up in bed, rubbing the heel of your palm against your stinging eyes while muttering curses under your breath. It was always the hardest to wake up on the first day. Your grumbles continued throughout the process of getting dressed in your red button down and black tie. They persisted when you tugged up your trousers and laced your loafers. They even endured while you made your morning cup of coffee. The apartment was empty except for yourself, your roommate having already gone off to work. You make a disgruntled sound when you find the note he left for you, done in dark blue ink on a light blue sticky note. It read "dave! i thought you should know that we're almost out of milk! also, we're having stir fry for dinner tonight so don't go out with your friends this time! –JE". You snorted at his excessive cheerfulness but it was just the thing you needed to brighten your day. He had a knack for making you smile.

After almost spilling hot coffee on your pants and gathering up your briefcase, you switched your customary shades for your glasses before trotting down the steps of the apartment building, glaring at anyone that got in your way. You locate your beat up, rust red Toyota Camry and pull out of the parking lot. Your mood improves when you flip on your iPod, silently thanking car makers for their ingenious addition of a port for one's MP3. You hum along with the music, smile stuck on your lips while you drive. That smile is quickly wiped away when some asshole that was overcompensating for his tiny dick cut you off in the turn lane, causing you to miss your light. You slam your head down against the steering wheel, your horn blocking out the expletives you screeched.

Today was going to be a long day.

"Alright, you're my homeroom. You kids only have to see me twice during this school year, if you're unfortunate enough to not have me as a teacher. If you are taking Music Appreciation, I'll see you in one of the following periods. So, kids-who's-last-names-start-with-Sta-to-Van, come up when I call your first name to grab your schedule."

You are perched on the edge of your desk, holding a large stack of papers in one hand and fiddling with a pencil with the other. You start to call out names, intentionally butchering easy ones while smoothly pronouncing the more difficult ones. There are a few kids out there that laugh when you mess up the pronunciation of "Robert", which you're grateful for. At least a few brats have been taught to have a sense of humor. The only two that you mispronounce for real are Vriska and Karkat. Who the fuck names their kids that?

The first one—Vriska Serket—saunters up to you with an almost fanged smile on her painted blue lips. You're mildly intimidated by her, what with the excess of spider web lace and blue. Her jeans are ripped down the thighs, intentionally frayed to add to a 'bad girl' effect. It suits her, you think as her Converse squeak against the ground. She's snatching up her schedule with her blue-painted index finger and thumb, shooting you a slight wink as she swaggers away. Her hips shake a bit too much for it to be coincidental. Sucks for her that you don't date students and aren't batting for the fish market. You prefer the sausage fest.

The second one, however, catches your attention. He's short and stocky, seemingly chubby but you can tell it's just muscle (you've lived around John long enough to be able to tell the difference). He's got his hands shoved into the pockets of loose grey jeans that lead down to ragged black Vans on his feet. He's wearing a baggy black turtleneck that he's practically swimming in, a head of black hair popping out of the neck. You can't stop a little smile from forming on your lips. You think this one must be a freshman, mostly because he's so small that you don't think he could be otherwise. He tilts his head up to look at you, little nose scrunched up in what you think is anger. His bushy eyebrows make it difficult to tell if he's pissed or not. The little guy's lips seem to be permanently set into a scowl but, surprisingly, it makes him a little cuter than anyone else. His eyes are rust brown, the pupils widening when they catch your crimson gaze. The thing you notice the most is his skin tone; a light, ruddy brown that looked like someone had added two creamers to black coffee. The bit you could see was smooth and unmarked by blemishes, save for the remains of nervous picking at the skin of one's face. Your lips curve up into a smile as he snatches his schedule from you.

The bell rings shortly after that. You realize you didn't even get to see what grade he was in.

It's sixth period and you are so done with everyone.

The headache you had had from that morning hadn't gone away in the slightest. In fact, you're almost positive that there was a crow in your head, picking at the inside of your skull. You feel the need to blow off some steam but you can't just leave and go to the gym right then and there. You've still got two classes to teach. It's not even teaching today, it's just introducing yourself and going over your syllabus. The first day is the most tedious of them all.

You don't even look up from where you're nursing a water bottle when the bell rings and sends the crow squawking around your head. You hiss softly and down another mouthful of water. The day had been surprisingly hot. You had long since rolled up your sleeves and exposed your muscled forearms to the cool of your lecture hall. The school had decided that Music Appreciation should have a classroom where sound could be heard from all around.

Only after the bell has rung to signal the end of passing period and your head has stopped feeling so much like it was about to split in half do you stand up and make your way to the front of the class. You grip your attendance sheet in your hand, gritting your teeth as you look down the names that you don't really recognize.

Except for that one.

"Alright, kids, this is Music Appreciation. It's probably what you're taking as a freshman to get an easy credit. It might be what you take as a sophomore because you have an extra period, why not fill it? Or maybe you're a junior that doesn't have anything better to do. But the seniors in my class? I think you guys are actually interested in what I have to say. So, thanks, I guess, for signing up for my shitty class," there's an echo of gasps when you cuss, "and, yes, that will become a regular thing. If it disturbs any of you kiddos, just let me know and I'll try to keep the foul language to a minimum. Just because I cuss doesn't mean you guys can. So watch your fucking mouths."

You stop to allow the giggles you know come after that line, eyes glancing up over the paper, a smirk quirking the corner of your lips up to expose a bit of pristine white teeth. You wink up at them before allowing your gaze to fall back down to the attendance sheet. You can't seem to pull your eyes away from the one on the very bottom. It was the kid you had seen that morning. He was a senior, it seemed. Interesting.

You start to call roll, eyes flicking up to put a name to a face every single time. The kid over there with a yellow shirt and 3-D glasses was Sollux. The one off to your right (was she wearing pink goggles?) was Feferi. A tiny girl wearing a blue hat in the shape of a cat (Nepeta) was seated in the top row, right next to a sweaty guy with broken sunglasses (Equius). There was one girl who wore red glasses that spiked at the corners, who was seated right next to that Vriska gal. There was a rope around the red-glasses girl's neck (name's Terezi, remember, Dave?) in the shape of a noose. A kid with a Mohawk in a wheelchair was in the very front (Tavros) while right behind him was another senior, this time with a head of messy black hair and Juggalo paint on his stoned-as-fuck face (Gamzee). A tall, busty, thick girl with long rusty red hair to match her body shape (Aradia) was sat next to 3-D dude and Sweaty. Right next to goggles was a kid with hipster glasses, a scarf and a streak of purple in the front of his perfectly coifed blonde hair. Eridan was his name. In the very back corner, the farthest from you, was a girl with impeccable fashion sense and cropped dark green hair, Kanaya. On the other side of 3-D was the one that had caught your attention, Karkat Vantas.

There were two things you knew about your class so far. One was that they were all likely mentally insane and had some weird ass tastes. The second was that you knew that this class was never going to be boring. The smile on your lips didn't leave this time around, your headache lessening the longer you looked at the short kid right next to the blonde guy with 3-D glasses.

Maybe this year wouldn't be so bad.


	2. Chapter 2

**MY TEACHER IS AN ASSHOLE**

You fucking hate waking up in the morning.

You slam your small hand down on the alarm clock, staring blearily up at the ceiling and groaning inaudibly. Your full size mattress creaks when you push yourself up into a seated position, the old springs bouncing underneath you. The clock reads 5:30, its blinding red glare laughing at you from where it's perched on your nightstand. You give it the meanest of looks before swinging your legs off your bed and accidentally stepping on your cat, Kankri (named after your older brother, who had already left the home), the tabby thing hissing at you before it bounded out of the room. You stare after it with a sort of detached interest, not really being able to bring yourself to care about the wretched little thing and its incessant meowing. You groan once again, the sound causing your already dry throat to ache. You are desperately in need of water.

You hear your mother call your name from the kitchen, no doubt having gotten up to cook your ceremonial "First Day of School Breakfast". The scent of freshly made tortillas wafts in from the crack in your door and that has you perking up in seconds. Madre's cooking is always worth waking up for. You grumble about having to get up this early for school while trying to look on the bright side of things. Only one more year, you think, one more year of this bullshit and then college, where everyone is at least _slightly _more mature than those in high school. The sound of sizzling bacon hits your ears, as well as the smell of it, and you're already out in the hall, tugging a too big turtleneck over your head and provoking your hair into becoming a bigger mess than before. You hear your mother's babbled Spanish from your guys' moderately sized kitchen. It seemed as though your father had already gone into work but he had made sure to leave you a little note about keeping the word of God with you while you're in school.

He always made you suffer with his annoying preaching and disgusting habit of shoving Catholicism down your throat, despite your best efforts to tell him you just weren't interested. Your brother had swallowed the stuff happily and was off in a foreign country, probably Italy, to spread the good word. Dad was so proud of him. You, however, were a disappointment. Unable to hold a girlfriend for more than a few months (when would your dad _figure it the fuck out_?!), unwilling to hold God dear and, all in all, just a failure; that was how your father saw you and you knew it. The only thing you were good at, in your father's eyes, was singing. The bastard had shoved you into a fucking church choir when you were a boy, forcing you to sing hymns and memorize Bible texts. Utter hell. You were just glad that your madre was more reasonable than your father. She still worshipped happily, always had and always would, but she knew something your father didn't and probably never would know. She knew your orientation and she was proud of you for being able to accept yourself. She had always been your favorite parent, ever since you were a kid. Your madre taught you Spanish, kept you safe from your father's wrath and managed to continuously slip you an extra tortilla during dinner. She loved you and you returned the sentiment wholeheartedly.

Speaking of love, she had just placed a plate piled with food in front of you, shooting you a wink as she bustled about the kitchen, cleaning up all of her mess while she hummed. Your madre was short and busty and round, but not too round. She was the perfect size to wrap your arms around and cuddle, she always smelt of homemade food or documents, like when she had to bring work home, and her brown eyes were always warm and welcoming. They were unlike your father's eyes, which had a reddish tint to them, that stared at you with disapproval whenever you did or said anything. To block out the image of your father's gaze, you eagerly took a tortilla and filled it with cheesy eggs and bacon, happily biting into the still steaming breakfast burrito. Your mother always made the best Mexican food, homemade and ripe with spices.

You savored your breakfast while you could, eagerly digging into the food without as much as a glance towards the clock to gauge your time. Madre would tell you whether or not you were going to be late. Besides, you didn't take the bus anymore. Not since last summer, when you had purchased an old mint green truck from your neighbor down the street. It was falling apart practically but it held up fine for now. Besides, your money was going towards a college fund. Who cares about fancy cars? You were going to do… Something with your life. But it required college, not a cool car or sweet threads.

You stuff the rest of the burrito in your mouth when your madre taps you on the shoulder, gathering up your stuff and shouting a muffled 'adios!' to her as you left. She giggled and returned the farewell, her tinkling laughter all you needed to bring a smile to your face.

You made it to school in no time at all, even with stopping by to pick up your best friend and his paraplegic boyfriend from his house (how that even worked, you had no clue, but you were certain nothing immensely sexual was going to happen until Tavros had his operation and got prosthetics). The ride was filled with you making rude comments about the drivers around you and how they were all fucking idiots who needed to get their thumbs out of their ass and drive like a proper human being and not a brain dead monkey, hold on a second, let me call animal control, there's a zoo animal on the loose and it drives a purple Volvo! Said Volvo contained your rather close friends Eridan and Feferi. Of course Fef was driving. _Of course._

Said group of friends all met in the cafeteria, where they had been meeting for the past four years. It was a warm welcome to see their faces, though some weren't as warm as others. Vriska shot you a toothy grin and a middle finger, which you happily returned. Nepeta was bouncing up and down on Equius' knee, lithe hands braiding his shoulder length black hair into dreadlocks. He was sweaty, like always, and raised a hand towards you in greeting, Nepeta following suite with an exclaimed 'Karkitty!'. Next to Vriska was your ex, Terezi, with her stylish noose around her neck. Seemed as though she had convinced the school board to let her wear it this year. Either that or her absolutely frightening lawyer mother had done so for her. Bitch was crazy. Kanaya was hooked to her phone, a smile on her painted green lips that wasn't usually there. You suspect it had something to do with that purple text girl she had been talking to for the past two years. Your fashionable friend was so in love, it wasn't even funny. Fef and Eridan (was your fishy asshole of a friend shaking violently because of Feferi's inability to drive?) bounded (well, Feferi bounded, Eridan kind of dragged his feet while looking a little green around the gills) up to your rag tag team of friends. Aradia and Sollux were nowhere to be found, probably having a little romantic meeting off in some dark corner of the gym, lovesick bastards.

The bell rang shortly after Nepeta finished tying all of those dreadlocks up into one big ponytail, gushing happily over her work while Equius pressed a soft kiss to her forehead (and now there was a veritable puddle on the floor). You all shared a laugh at his expense and then you were off to homeroom, trudging along while Vriska complained about Terezi biting too hard. The bitch always liked to flaunt how she had snatched up your ex mere days after you two had broken up. You seriously hated her, especially when she shoved her long blue hair back to expose a few hickeys/bite marks. You silently cursed the alphabet for its damned placement of S and V so close together.

When you enter your homeroom, you immediately split from the eight-legged bitch and find a seat in the very corner of this large lecture hall. The teacher up front makes some smart ass remarks that you don't really pay attention to, given how it's early in the morning and you don't really want to do anything other than pass out on this desk. The room is abuzz in moments, 'I miss you's and 'How was your summer's flying back and forth between friends. The homeroom teacher keeps calling out names over the buzz, sarcastic in his mispronunciation of simple names while smoothly shouting monikers such as "ABCDE" and "Xochitl". He succeeds in pulling a few laughs from you but, otherwise, you don't pay the guy much heed. It's only when he calls out your name that you look up and notice him.

It only takes you moments to assess him. You'd never seen this teacher before and you're surprised you hadn't because how could you miss those eyes? Even from the very back of the hall, you could see the shocking crimson behind thin lenses. You half wondered if they were colored contacts and he was just being an asshole, like Eridan that one day when he came to school with yellow eyes. But then you got closer and realized that those truly were his eyes. The area surrounding the pupil was a darker red than the rest, streaks of that color exploding throughout the iris. There was an amused look in those eyes as you approached, letting your gaze wander downwards a bit. His jaw line was strong and smooth, except for a bit of stubble on his chin where you assumed a soul patch would grow if he let it. His shoulders are broad and chest toned, from what you can tell of his red dress shirt. He's wearing a skinny black tie that points even further down, where you stop your perusal. You snatch up your schedule with a slight flush, hurriedly making your way back to where your stuff was to ponder why your heart was beating like that.

The bell rings and you're out of there, but not before you subtly glance back at the blonde, red-eyed mystery sat at the front desk.

The rest of your classes go by quickly. First is U.S. Government, second period happens to be AP English 12, third rolls around with C++ Programming (you're going to regret this one), fourth period is a free period, so you hang out with Equius and Gamzee, who were unable to be with their significant others considering that both Nep and Tav were juniors. Fifth is Sculpting and Modeling 101 (you paid fifty dollars for this fucking class, you better be a god damn Michelangelo by the end of this course), lunch comes after that. You all compare schedules, even though it's halfway through the day already and you know who is in most of your classes. You all thought it was weird that you all had the same lunch this year but it turns out that your sixth period is the same as the rest of theirs. They all gush over being able to go to a class with everyone but you think the entire thing is just too coincidental. Lunch passes just like it did last year, with idle conversation and stealing food and general merriment. You didn't realize how much you missed their company until you had it back again.

The walk to sixth period leads you down a familiar hallway until you're standing in front of the door you had left this morning. Everyone clusters inside, talking excitedly while you stay back, head tilted curiously up at the number on the door. Room 413, Music Appreciation. Gamzee sends you a confused look, causing you to step in and take a seat beside Sollux so your best friend could be near his boyfriend. The teacher you had seen this morning has his head in his hands, fingers massaging his temples while he cradles a water bottle against his chest. His lips are set into a grimace, a fine line that portrays how distressed he was. He downs another gulp of water, head tilted back to swallow. Your eyes watch his Adam's apple bob up and down before he's pushing himself out of his seat and stepping forward to stand in front of the class. You feel weird, watching his long legs take strides and his forearms bulge out of the sleeves he had rolled up. His blonde hair, presumably slicked back, had lost its hold, a few strands of hair falling in on his forehead. He grits his teeth in pain before his head is dipped down to read the attendance list, pale brows quirking up a bit as he reads.

When he speaks, his voice is a soothing low treble, bordering on baritone. It booms throughout the lecture hall, resounding and bouncing off the high ceilings. He goes off on a tangent about kids taking his class, a small cuss uttered from his lips in description of his class. Everyone gives a little gasp. Not every teacher cussed. You think your teacher is either a twenty-something fresh out of college or an old geezer attempting to be cool. But by that impeccable skin and toned body, you're going to guess he isn't a day past twenty-five. His joke has you smiling just slightly before you quell it, teeth digging into your bottom lip to prevent any _more _smiles to escape you. He calls roll, smoothly pronouncing each of your names and flicking his startling eyes up to glance at whoever called here. You hear their well-known voices around you but you can't help but simply focus on your teacher, head tilted and brow furrowed as you try to figure out what the fuck you were looking at. He called your name and you shouted here, snapping out of your reverie with a start. He grins at you and holy fuck his teeth are fucking snow or something, what does he do, brush his teeth seventeen times a day? You glare at him, albeit half-heartedly, and point your gaze elsewhere.

The teacher (whose name is Mister Strider) passes out his course syllabus, flicking the paper at you with an amused smirk set on his stupid attractive face. Shit, you needed to get a hold of yourself. You glare down at the paper without reading the words, trying to process what exactly was gripping your throat so tight you felt like you were going to choke when the blonde looked at you. It was only when Sollux nudged you that you realized Mr. Strider was trying to get your attention.

"Shit, kid. Pay attention. I asked you if you could read the first paragraph for me. You a little slow or something?" His smirk and eyes suddenly took on a new shine, one of taunting and promising torment. You narrowed your rusty eyes and, with a snarl, ducked your head down and began reading his syllabus.

Fuck attractive blondes and startling red eyes—you were going to _hate _this teacher. You think you already started to when he corrected your pronunciation of 'genre' and told you to reread the sentence you had just read _six fucking times._

Fuck Mr. Strider, seriously, what an asshole.


	3. Chapter 3

**my entire class is fucking insane**

You have a weird way of portraying attraction and interest. Your way of displaying interest is more like that of a grade schooler than that of a thirty-year-old man.

A twisted smirk crossed your lips when the Karkat kid snarled at you, head ducked down while he began to read off your syllabus. He stumbled over a word and you forced him to reread the entire sentence—continuing to do so when he kept stumbling over his words. The mispronunciation of 'genre' caused him to send you the nastiest look as he read the entire thing again, rust eyes locked on the paper. You could see the way his coffee-with-cream skin heated up around his ears and neck with both embarrassment and anger. His peers choked down little giggles as he finally finished up the paragraph and shot you a glare that would make a weak man's skin crawl.

You're anything but weak.

With a grin, you placed the pack of papers you had on your desk, crossing your arms as you began to go over the course work. You had practically memorized that thing over the past few periods and years. The words were fucking engraved in your frontal lobe.

"Alright kids, here's how it's going to go down. We have four quarters in a year and two semesters. What's going to happen is that we're going to go over five eras and two genres in each era; the 60's and rock n' roll, plus soul, the 70's and disco and pop, the 80's and hair metal and electronica, the 90's and rap and grunge and then we get to the new era with hip hop and Dubstep. Now don't groan at me, I hate the stuff as much as you guys do but it has been extremely influential for this era. Any questions before I move on or have you guys absorbed all this info?" You look up when the girl to your right raises her hand, the bangles on her wrist clinking together. You nod in her direction to indicate to her that you'd like her to ask her question.

The girl dropped her hand, salmon pink nails (were those scales or were you hallucinating?) tapping against the desk. She reached up to push back a clump of bright blonde and pink hair, fingers resting against her dark brown cheek. She puffed them up and pushed out her bubble-gum pink lips, eyes tilted up and to the side as she hummed softly. She seemed to be mulling over her question in a very showy way and you were beginning to get irritated when she finally popped up.

"Like, can we bring in our own music and shore?" You passed off the 'shore' as a slip of the tongue, head tilting in contemplation as she eagerly forged on. "I tobubbly," _what the fuck did she just say_, "wanna show everyone my tastes!" She beamed at you and you weren't sure how to say no to that expectant, puppy dog face. You opened your mouth to speak when the entire class let out a groan, various tones and voices correlating together to become a single entity of '_no_'. The bubbly black girl huffed and crossed her arms, doing a very good impression of a blowfish at the rest of the class. 3-D snorted at her expression and leaned over, a toothy grin spread across his cheeks. You saw that there was a noticeable gap in between his two front teeth, which is probably what caused the lisp that he spoke with next.

"Fuck, FF," you send him a little glare for the curse but let him continue anyway, "we all hate your music. You only listen to bubble gum pop and the soundtrack to _The Little Mermaid_." Everyone gave a laugh at his statement, which had a certain air of indignation and pompous douchebagery to it. You already know that's going to grate on your nerves. It apparently already does so to Feferi, who pushed herself up and pointed one fishy nail towards 3-D, painted lips curling into a sneer.

"Yeah, Sollux? Well, I never complained about your tobubbly unbubblyeviable techno tastes! So I don't want to hear any of it from an ex-buoyfrond!" Okay, you were seriously wondering about the fish puns, what the fuck was she doing that for? She did kind of remind you of a blowfish, what with the soft curves and kinky blonde-pink hair and puffy cheeks. Sollux sent another quip back, pushing himself up and shoving an accusatory finger in her direction. Soon, insults both fishy and technological were flying back and forth across the room. Your headache was starting up again when Karkat and the hipster next to Feferi tugged their individual friends down, whispering calmly and effectively soothing their frazzled nerves. Fishy over to your right settled back down in her seat, satiated but looking annoyed. Sollux just heaved a sigh and leaned back in his chair, muttering things under his breath.

Okay, so it seemed like everyone in your class had history with each other. _Great._ You sigh and press a finger to your temple, crimson eyes being hidden behind your lids while you began to mumble incoherently. Finally, you cracked an eye open and let an exasperated smile cross your face. "You'd have to bring in the music beforehand so that I could evaluate it and decide whether or not we could share. Sorry, Feferi, just bring in what you want to and I'll deem whether or not it's acceptable. Okay then, kids, moving on. There'll be a project due at the end of each era and a quiz over each genre. There'll be a test on the 60's and 70's, the 80's and 90's and then the New Era before we have a big final over the entire course. Every day, we'll listen to songs and do a reading. Thursdays is when we watch music videos—yes, you can bring videos in for evaluation too—and I only assign homework on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Class work the rest of the days, if you don't finish it in class, I will accept it the next day but you have to bring it in the morning, before school starts." You smile around at them, raising your brows expectantly as you wait for questions. Seemed like no one had any, apparently, because everyone remained silent. You pushed yourself away from the desk and clapped your hands together, feeling your internal clock tell you that there was about 20 minutes of class left.

"Okay, kiddos, I'm going to go through and I want each of you to say your name, what grade you're in and what your favorite genre of music is. Stand up while you're doing so, okay? I'll start. Dave Strider, post-graduate, club music. Alright, you, up in the corner with the sketchpad." The girl up there jumped, head snapping up as she stared down at you, as if she had just noticed that she was in class. She pointed one perfectly manicured French tip to herself and mouthed 'me?', plucked eyebrows raising to her dark green hairline. You nod and she huffs a bit, standing and crossing her delicate brown arms over her red blouse, eyes pointed downwards. Her lips are colored the same as her hair, making them stand out against her dark chocolate skin. Her voice has this maternal tone to it, like she's chastising you and you feel an odd need to apologize to her. "Kanaya Maryam, senior, classical." She's quick to sit down and get back to work, nose almost pressed to her sketchpad. You shake your head and move down the aisle to the Vriska gal you had seen earlier.

She pushes herself up with blatant confidence, one manicured hand clothed in spider-lace gloves shoving a heap of dark blue hair over her bared shoulder. Her skin is the color of cream, causing the heaps of blue makeup on her face to stand out in stark contrast. Seems like the girl didn't know the meaning of 'less is more'. There were piercings run through her ear up to her cartilage, various bits of metal stuck in her eyebrows and lips as well. Her entire style screamed 'punk, bad girl with daddy issues'. The girl's voice was bitchy and pretentious and a little bit nasally. "Vriska Serket, senior, metal." She sent you a flirtatious wink and flopped back into her seat, grin permanently stuck on those cobalt lips. You nodded towards the noose-girl next to her, indicating that it was her turn.

She didn't move at all, simply grinning at you and taking a whiff of the air. Everyone stared at the bouncy little red head, streaks of teal throughout the mop of auburn, until Vriska finally shoved her in the shoulder and she bounced up. It was only then that you noticed a walking stick next to her and you pieced everything together. The kid was _blind_. Or near blind, holy fuck, why did you not get a memo about this. The noose around her neck bobbed when she tilted her head, grin so ferocious that you could swear she filed her teeth down to points. Her fashion sense was less extravagant than the previous two, a simple Ace Attorney t-shirt on and jeans. The only odd things about her were her glasses and her nooselace. Her skin was a darker cream than that of Vriska but hers was mottled with freckles. She was pretty average, body wise, not a lot of curves on her at all. Her voice was gravely and had a certain tone about it that made you suspect that she came from New York and holy fuck was this girl _loud._ "Terezi Pyrope, junior, jazz!" She cackled and sat back down again, leaving you confused and baffled as to why there was no note about her disability in your class files. You moved on, nonetheless, and nodded towards the little girl with the blue cat hat, beneath which lied a mop of messy brown hair.

This girl gave a delighted squeal and stood, only her top half visible over the desk. You smile towards the little girl, who was the same tone as Karkat, but hers seemed to be more tan than natural. She raised one fingerless gloved hand and gave a happy wave, an extremely large, blue jacket clumped about her arms. That thing was so not hers. Underneath that coat was a tight green tank top, the rest of her ensemble hidden behind the desk but you thought she was wearing khaki Capri pants and striped blue and green stockings. Her voice was bubbly and high, a certain roll to each of her 'R's that made you think of foreign countries. "Nepeta Leijon, junior, pop!" She gave another ear-splitting shriek and plopped back down in her seat, eyes on the sweaty kid next to her. He immediately stood up without any prompting from you and _holy fucking shit he was like seven fucking feet tall when did you have Sasquatch put into your class_.

This guy is _extremely_ tall and _extremely_ buff, if his dark, ripped arms are any indication. He's wearing a black tank top and grey gym shorts, making it very apparent that this kid was a muscled _beast_. His black hair was tied up in a pony tail, dreads hanging down on either side of his face. He gave a sheepish smile (_there were teeth missing, did this kid get into fights?!_) and nodded towards you. His skin was slick with sweat, what you'd expect from a guy who worked out too much, and his voice had a certain breathy quality to it. It was a deep baritone and rang throughout the lecture hall. "Equius Zahhak, senior, country." He sat back down and was immediately attacked by cat girl, who gave him a sloppy kiss on the sweaty cheek. You tutted at them, one brow raised as a knowing smirk curled your lips.

"No PDA in this room, kiddos. Save the hanky panky for after class." Equius gave a splutter, sweat beginning to pool at his brow. He had a towel suddenly and was mopping at the perspiration staining his skin. You decided not to dwell on the weird kid's behavior and moved along, pointing towards the red-head next to him. The busty girl stood, auburn curls falling down behind her back when she did. Her shirt had a picture of a smiling skull on it, red bubbling down its eye sockets to form a bloody heart just below it. There was a dirt dusted skirt just below the shirt. The chick was anything but petite, round almost everywhere. Her skin matched that of Terezi's, freckles spattered on the creamy expanse like a Pollock painting. A smile pushed up her round cheeks as she gave a wave, red painted lips pulled back to expose a set of pearly whites. "Aradia Megido, junior, rock n' roll!" Her voice definitely gave away that she was Irish, exceptionally Irish. She gave a little giggle and sat down, at which point 3-D stood.

The Asian kid was tall, that was for sure, but he wasn't as tall as Sasquatch the Sweaty over there. He was lanky and hunched over a bit, like he worked at a computer all his life (which he probably did). His hair was cut reminiscent of the Beatles, with bangs cropped all the same length and long side burns on either side of his face. There really wasn't much else noticeable about him, save for the odd glasses. The symbol for a USB was on his yellow shirt. "Sollux Captor, senior, techno." He was seated then and you were on to the kid you really wanted to know about.

You pointed towards Karkat, delighting in the little huff he gave as he stood, just a few inches taller than the Nepeta girl down on the other end of the row. His scruffy black mop was hung over his face in choppy bangs, partially shading his rust eyes from view. His face was round at the cheeks and angular at the chin, above which was set a scowl. His skin, that delectable coffee-with-cream color, was darker at the cheeks, possibly with embarrassment. You couldn't tell much about the rest of his body, what with the baggy turtleneck and grey jeans. His voice, which had a nice rasp to it, was filled with snark. "Karkat Vantas, senior, I don't have a preference for anything." He made a move to sit down but you stopped him, shaking your head while pulling a disappointed face. "What? I can't just like every genre?" His snarl was evident, rage poured into every syllable. Ah, you were going to have a lot of fun with this.

"You have to pick something, Mr. Vantas, can't just like them all. Would you like to tell us what _kinds _of songs you prefer instead?" That caused his cheeks to darken even more, spreading along his face to his nose and ears as well. Oh? He muttered something, head ducked down and fists clenched. You leaned forward and put your ear towards him, one pale brow raised. "Hmm? Couldn't hear you, kid." The next one was a bit louder but rushed enough so that you couldn't make out what he said. "One more time now, speak up." He looked up and muttered it again, eyes filled with hate directed at you. A bit of excitement welled up in your midsection as you stepped towards him, eyebrows rising even more. "You want detention on your first day, kid?" That made him glare harder and the next answer was a shout.

"Love songs! I like love songs, you brain-dead, shit-fucking asswipe, are you happy now?!" Your expression was a cross between amused and angry. You didn't like being called names, especially by students. He realized his mistake and chomped down on his bottom lip, trying to retreat into his turtleneck as he sat down. You pointed an accusatory finger at him, tutting yet again. "Detention, see me after class." He spluttered loudly, hands flying about while he cussed at you more. There were mixed reactions throughout the class; Vriska and Terezi were hooting and hollering, Sollux and hipster kid looked like they were trying to contain their laughter while Nepeta and Kanaya glared at you. Quite a few kids were either disinterested or shocked at the situation and Karkat's mouth. You ignored him and moved on to Feferi, who stood up when she noticed you looking at her.

The girl was a veritable twig everywhere except for her chest and ass, which were well-endowed. There was a bit of midriff showing through the ripped bottom of her cream colored tank top, flat stomach and a stud in her belly button plainly visible. Her skin was like the color of Kanaya's, maybe a few shades lighter, and was absolutely flawless all about. Her wrists and neck were heavily jeweled with fuchsia, pink, light green and gold, necklaces and bangles clinking about. Her goggles made her eyes seem an odd pinkish-purple color, not unlike the jewels that adorned her. The bubbly voice that had been screeching insults earlier was back to its happy tone, delight evident in the soprano. "Feferi Peixes," _did she just say Peixes, as in Peixes Productions, the most influential company in the biz, _"junior, hip-hop!" She floated back down, eagerly inspecting her nails as you stared for long moments. Okay. So you had the heir to Peixes Productions in your class. You made a mental note to ask her about submitting a script to her father as you nodded towards hipster, a daze settling in.

The blonde in front of you was relatively tall, maybe a few inches shorter than Sollux, but you couldn't really tell with the way his hair stood up. His fingers were bejeweled with amethyst and gold, much like Feferi's wrists but with purple. He wore a long sleeved black shirt, a spatter of purple forming a music note emblazoned on its front. That looked suspiciously like the Ampora Records symbol. His striped blue-and-teal scarf hung down over part of the symbol, making it hard to tell just what it was. He tugged at one sleeve with purple manicured nails, grumbling about something under his breath. This guy's skin was like that of Vriska's, almost identical in shade, save for a few spots here and there where he had obviously picked at the skin. His skinny jeans were purple as well, rips along the thigh where you could see them. The blonde's voice had this odd wavy tone to it, a stutter on his 'W's and his 'V's pronounced much the same way as the aforementioned letter. "Eridan Ampora," _holy fucking shit_, "senior, and I guess I like folk music more than anything else out there, whatever." He sat down again, picking at his nails much like Feferi was doing with her own.

Two highly influential teen heirs that would, most likely, grow to dislike you were in your class? _Fucking dandy._

You let out a shuddery breath and point your finger towards the only kid in the bottom row, in front of which was a kid who couldn't sit at the desks because of the stairs. This kid just stared blankly at you for a bit, eyes red-ringed and unfocused, until he finally realized it was his turn and stood up. If you had thought Equius had been Sasquatch, you were apparently wrong because Sasquatch the Sweaty had a cousin and his name was _Bigfoot the Behemoth_. The kid's angular face was colored with white and grey, easily dubbing him as a Juggalo. What you could see of his skin matched that of Nepeta's, his tone natural as opposed to tan. You suspected he was of Arabian descent but didn't really have any proof for that, it was just a hunch. His fingernails were painted black, thumbs visible from where he had stuffed them into the pockets of his purple jacket. The shirt underneath that was covered with creepy looking clowns, none of which resembled the members of ICP (_dear god, please don't let this kid bring that shit in for evaluation_). What you could see of his pants didn't give away much, only the chain to a wallet visible in the saggy pocket of those heavily washed jeans. His mop of heavy black hair partially concealed those watery eyes, a serene expression on his painted face. It took you a minute of staring at him for him to finally start speaking, voice raspy from marijuana smoke and fluctuating with his high. "Gamzee Makara, senior and I like all of that… Miraculous shit. The one with all the colors." The kid in front of him turned around and gave him a little smile, sheepish and loving. "It's called, psychedelia, Gamzee." His voice was nasally and he stuttered a lot, which you chalked up to a lack of confidence due to his paraplegic state. Senior Juggalo nodded slowly and sat down, leaning across the desk to press a kiss to the cripple's forehead. You didn't dare call him out on the PDA, preferring to keep your head for the rest of the school year. You nodded towards the last kid in your class, eager to get this over with.

The kid in front of you, wheelchair bound with small legs that led down to sock-covered feet in sandals, had quite the muscled torso. His chest was wide and blocky, the symbol for a bull half hidden by a black dress shirt that was rolled up at the sleeves. His arms were pretty healthy, most likely from rolling himself around all day. His forearms were covered with a heavy dusting of dark brown, almost blending into the skin tone that was just a shade darker than Karkat's. There was a fluffy Mohawk set atop his head, sides shaved down expertly. There was a small gold hoop set in his septum, below which were thick lips and a soul patch on his chin. His entire face was chiseled, like a model's, set atop a thick neck. A ring with a dark purple gem was hooked onto a gold chain, resting just in the hollow of his neck. A similar ring, but with brown, was on a chain around Gamzee's neck, now that you noticed. You immediately pegged them as a couple. Seeing as he couldn't stand, the Mohawked boy in front of you spoke up about his name and musical preference. "Tavros Nitram, junior, I, like to listen, to rap." He beamed at you for a moment before turning around to look at the Juggalo, smile softening slightly when he caught the pride in those stoned eyes.

Now that introductions were done with, you could tell your class their first assignment of the year. "Since it is Tuesday, I'm giving you guys a homework assignment. Other than getting your permission slip and course syllabus signed by your parents, I'd like you guys to bring in a song that really speaks to you or describes you. It'll be your first grade of the quarter so don't forget it! We'll listen to them all tomorrow and guess who it belongs to. This is the one time you don't need my permission for song choice but don't go crazy with it, okay?" With a checking of your internal clock, you guessed there were only a few seconds left of class. You wish them all luck and remind them again about their homework before moving to sit at your desk.

When the bell shrieks, you call to Karkat, who had tried to slip away between Equius and Gamzee. He gives a little snarl and waves goodbye to his friends before he's turned around and stalking towards your desk. A smirk curled your lips as your crimson irises met his rust ones; yours filled with teasing and his with hatred.

The games had begun motherfucker.


	4. Chapter 4

**ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME RIGHT NOW.**

Right when you think your teacher is going to make you read the next paragraph, he's putting down his packet and reviewing the rest of the syllabus. You read along with his words, mentally planning out what you're going to do over the school year. The way he broke down each genre would give you five genres per semester, which made it a lot easier for you to plan out your time. What with the rest of your classes, you couldn't afford to not look ahead. It was your senior year, after all. Took three electives and one free period since you had completed the rest of your courses, like science and P.E. and the only core classes you had to take were Government, Trigonometry and English. The rest were electives and fuck did you love all the free time you were going to have. You could focus on actual important shit and not school assessments that wouldn't even matter in your career field (whatever that was gonna be, you haven't figured all that shit out yet).

What with all the thinking, you had spaced out and weren't paying a lick of attention in class until Sollux stood up. You hadn't had a chance to figure out what was going on before your friend was already sitting down again. He mumbled what you were supposed to say quickly, already having sensed your distress. Favorite genre? Well shit, you hadn't had any time to think at all! You stood up and tried to growl out your name, class and that you didn't have a particular preference but Mr. Strider stopped you. The alternative was to say what types of songs you liked and shit, you didn't want to confess that! Nobody but you and Gamzee knew of your particularly strong inclination towards songs of a romantic origin. You ducked your head down and mumbled softly, feeling a part of you wanting to lie about it. But your friends would know and, knowing Vriska and Eridan, one of them would call you out on it. Or Gamzee would choose today to listen and speak up. It was easier and less painful to just tell the truth.

You wouldn't go down without a fight, though, and continued to mumble your response in hopes that your dick of a teacher would just leave you be. It was only when he threatened detention—_detention?! On your first day of school!?_—did you finally snap and say it. But what came out of your mouth wasn't what you had intended. You realized your horrendous mistake moments too late, clamping down on your bottom lip as Mr. Strider's crimson gaze turned into an admonishing glare. He gave you detention anyway, which caused a string of colorful curses and extraordinary expletives to fall from your lips. That son of a bitch! You were just glad that Tavros' big brother, Rufioh, picked him and Gamzee up after school. You had a fucking lesson with your dad today! He was going to bite your head off and give you another sermon. Knowing your father, he wouldn't even believe it if you told him you'd had detention. And even if he did, it would just add to the long List of How Disappointing My Son Is. You settled back in your seat, glaring daggers at your professor as he finished up introductions. You wished his stupid chiseled face would fall off and those eyes would stop flicking back to you.

After class ended, you attempted to sneak out beside your two tallest friends (though almost everyone was taller than you, considering your stunted growth from an excess amount of caffeine—partly your fault because you fucking loved coffee but partly Gamzee's because he loved Faygo and you couldn't help but take a sip of the sugary sludge every now and then) but your teacher wasn't an idiot, though he certainly looked like one (at least, to you he did). He caught you and called after you, not even glancing up from where he had his phone out. You trudged back to his desk, thumbs hooked into your pockets. You clenched your fists, hiding the nail polish on your well-manicured nails. Nepeta had brought your favorite colors today, red and grey, and had given you a beautiful set of striped nails during lunch. Your dad would freak when he saw but it was worth it to feel pretty for a bit. You didn't know if Mr. Strider was homophobic or not and you really didn't want to find out.

The man in front of you took off his glasses and loosened his tie, which confused you to no end until you realized that seventh was probably his prep period and he didn't have any more students coming in after this. You watched him stall a bit, taking a drink of water or cleaning his glasses, until the bell rang for seventh. He just had to make you late, the blonde fucker. You held back the snarl that wanted to escape, instead opting for nervously chewing at your nails—a poor decision, actually, especially when you caught your professor's eyes on the nails. His lips and curled into a smirk, one that you wanted to punch off his hideously attractive face.

"Nice nails, Mr. Vantas. Where'd you get 'em done? My nail lady is shit." He held up his own hand, which you finally noticed was caked with badly done black polish. It was chipped in some places or on the finger in others; whereas your nails were impeccably done (you were pretty sure that Nepeta wanted to be a cosmetologist). Despite yourself, you let out a bark of laughter and slammed your hand down against your lips, a blush heating your skin. Shit, you didn't mean for that to happen. Your professor laughed at your expression, standing and towering over you. He studied you for a while, head tilted to the side as his smirk slowly slipped away into a look of concentration. Finally, he shook his head and reached a hand down to ruffle your hair. You were taken aback by that, almost jumping backwards in your haste to get away.

"Shit, kid, don't be so skittish. You don't have detention after school today. Just don't call me names next time, okay? Mutual respect, Mr. Vantas. Call me all the names you want outside of class but if I hear one more slur directed at me, in my classroom, I will keep you after. Got it?" You looked up and nodded, unable to comprehend how this dipshit was suddenly acting so nice. It was a complete turnaround from before. He grinned that 1000-watt smile at you and reached forward, fist balled up. You eased your hand forward and returned the bump, a small grin forming on your own lips. "Now lemme write you a pass and you can head out to class, okay? Whatchu got next?" He moved back to his desk, leaning over as he searched in the drawers for his pass sheet and a pen.

You took the time to inspect his body in the most surreptitious way possible. Meaning, you got an eyeful while telling him that you had Trig with Ms. Calliope next. You dragged your eyes across the arch of his back, the way the fabric folded up at the area where his back became his ass. Those slacks were slung way too low, you could just the crack and you shouldn't want to see that as much as you do but hey there, how's it going? Those pants fit him exceptionally well, toned legs going on for miles. Part of you wondered how he stayed so fit while the other wanted to know how those thighs looked with sweat on them. You snapped your gaze back up to his face to see he was still writing and blithering on about how trigonometry was an idiotic class unless you wanted to do something with buildings. It seemed like he was stalling a bit more. You didn't mind this time; it allowed you to take in a bit more before you had to leave. He was carefully printing each number of the room you were headed to, lithe fingers clenched around the pencil. You didn't let yourself think about what else they could clench around, instead turning your gaze back to his torso. Bent like this, you could only see how it looked from the side Shit, he was buff. There was a bit of tub around his middle, possibly from age (but shit, this guy had to be young) or a rather sedentary lifestyle over the summer. You were sure it would go away soon. What you could see of his arms gave you the impression of a man who lifted weights on a regular basis. He was writing the last digit, giving you just enough time to assess his face. From the side, his chin was rounded and jaw line strong. His neck, unbridled by the tie now, was thick and unmarked. Your teacher's hair was shaved at the nape of his neck, becoming longer the higher up you went until you reached the top of his head, where the blonde mop was slicked back. You wondered how he looked with it down but then decided you didn't want those red eyes to be hidden. Speaking of those eyes, they were turning your way, along with the rest of his body.

You took the pass from him, relieved you hadn't gotten caught eyeing your teacher up, and bid him goodbye. You almost said 'adios profesor' but couldn't bring yourself to do it. Why flaunt your language? You rarely spoke it outside the house nowadays.

Math was filled with you doodling eyes in the margin of your syllabus, wondering about your teacher's odd behavior and actions. What was up with that? The teasing and torment? Then he was suddenly nice to you?! Your teacher either had severe dual personality disorder or was just plain crazy. You decided to write it off as nothing while still clinging to the way he acted when you two were alone. Maybe it would be like that always? Maybe he just had to get to know you first and then you could be, like, one of those kids that are friends with the teacher. Y'know, the one that gets their teacher Christmas and Valentine's gifts and stuff for their birthday. You think that would be nice.

You don't realize your doodling yourself and Mr. Strider until the bell rings.

You're parking the car in the driveway when you realize you have a lesson with your father today. You curse loudly and get back in your green pickup, having to book it down to the church to be just five minutes late. You stumble in through the doors, bag in hand and run to where your father expects you.

You see the disappointment in the set of his shoulders when you walk in. He turns to look at you, reddish-brown eyes filled with disgust. The grimace on his lips tugs down the wrinkles set into his skin, not from laughs but from frowns. There's crow's feet near his temples, making his glare seem all that more prominent. His black hair, cut in a business-like manner, is hung a little low over his forehead. You can tell that it's driving him crazy. His mouth opens and you already know what he's going to say.

"You're late," it's that fatherly voice again, tone filled with disgust at you and everything you do. You feel the warmth that had filled your body from being surrounded by friends and having an overall good day seep out of you, only to be replaced by the cold fear of being alone with your father. You trudged past him to sit down, only to be stopped by his hand on your arm. That cold in your suddenly became freezing, eyes widening as your breath began to quicken. What did he notice about you that was wrong?

He turns you to face him, hand still on your arm. Your father tugs on it until his fingers are clenched around your wrist, which he flips over to look at your nails. Shit shit shit shit shit. His look is more than enough to tell you that you are in some deep shit. He doesn't say a word, only drops your hand, and you are seated in mere seconds. He turns away from you and walks up to the board, upon which is drawn an elaborate cross and the words 'Lesson Plan' along the top. He grabs up a red marker, the scent of it hitting you from all the way over there when it is opened, and you know what he's about to write before he even presses the utensil to the slick white surface.

'Homosexuality'.

He draws a circle around it and then makes a big 'X' through it, silent while he writes. You hope to all the gods you don't believe in that this lesson will be short and sweet and to the point. You've undergone this sermon dozens of times. You wondered if he blamed your friends and their blatant displays of who they were. You envied them for being able to _be, _while you had to hide yourself away and not let your own father know who you were. He turns to you then, face blank except for a deep furrow in between his bushy brows.

You brace for impact.

"Karkat, this is the twenty-fifth time I've discussed this with you. Painting your nails is not normal. Letting your friends braid your hair is not sane. Wearing a dusting of eye shadow or glitter or covering up your natural complexion in any way, shape or form is not befitting a young man such as yourself. All of those things will label you as an undesirable, as someone going against God's word and will, as a _faggot_," the slur stings as much as the other hundreds of times he's said it, "and no son of mine is such a disgusting thing. 'A man shalt not lie with another man as he does a woman or he shalt be killed and the blood shalt be on his own hands'. How many times have you heard that quote, son? Answer me."

His words sting like tiny daggers digging into your throat and eyelids, leaving your mouth feeling like it was dry and your eyes watery. You swallow so your voice won't come out with a hitch. "About… A hundred times, sir." You look up and watch him nod slowly, expression hardening as he steps closer. You flinch as he slams his hands down on the table, leaning forward so that his snarl is in your face and you're crying now, tears slipping down your face and collecting at your chin.

"A. Hundred. Times. And you still do not understand? What does it mean, son? What does it mean?!" His voice scares you, it reminds you of everything you are and why you're not what he wants you to be and why you're such a failure but you manage to choke out an answer, tears pouring in torrents down your face when your father pulls away to stalk back up the white board.

"I-It means, you can't-t-t… Be g-aay. I-It's w-w-wrong." You choke on your sobs again, hand coming up to press against your mouth to stifle them. Your father turns to you and nods, eyes boring into your soul and you hope he can see the fucking rainbow inside of you because you sincerely wish he'd just disown you, you'd be happier that way. You wouldn't be subjected to this emotional torture and his disapproving gaze and tone. You shrink back in your seat when he slams a fist against the blackboard, right in the middle of the word 'homophobia'. When he pulls it away, the word is smudged and blurred, just like your vision.

"That's right. And no son of mine will be gay. Because then they aren't my son, they're a disgusting spawn of the Devil that was, unfortunately, entrusted to me." With that, he is stalking out of the room. You don't move when you hear the church doors slam. You don't move when you hear his car turn on. You don't move until you first hear the crickets start to chirp.

It's only then that you hunch over in your seat and start to sob. You gasp and cough with the severity of them, tears falling down to stain the tile and the edge of your desk. The only thing on your mind is release, some sort of relief from this pain. You continue to cry until you can't anymore, until your tears have run dry and your throat is rubbed raw. It's then that you get angry. You allow the anger to consume you, to light your previously frozen veins and make your blood boil. You think you see red when you slam your fist into the desk, the side of the balled-up hand beginning to smart immediately. You continue to slam your fist against the desk until you feel as though you've sufficiently drained yourself of the need to release the emotional turmoil that boiled up inside you. When you stand up, you're shaking violently. You inspect the damage done to your hand—thankfully, your left one. At least you could still write in class. Your teachers wouldn't be disappointed. Mr. Strider wouldn't look at you with the disdain. Even though you were unworthy of his attention at all.

Those self-deprecating thoughts pushed you to go to your car, feet dragging along the way. You climb into the driver's seat, still shaken, and check the clock. Ten after eight. Gamzee should be home by now and Tavros was only allowed to stay over on the weekends and the night before school started. You shove a hand into your hair, tugging at the strands to calm yourself down while breathing through clenched teeth. Gamzee. You had to get to Gamzee. He would be able to calm you down. You turn the key in the ignition and begin your drive down the familiar path from the church to your best friend's house.

You and Gamzee had been best friends since kindergarten. The day you two met is a day you'll never forget. There was a weird tall kid with paint on his face, sitting quietly in the back of the room. He looked serene as he colored with an innumerable amount of crayons. You, having always been a bit odd, were holed up in the playhouse on the other end of the room. When your teacher called for you all to gather around for story time, you had found out you were stuck in the house. The only one that noticed was Gamzee. You watched the odd kid look around for you before he caught sight of your worried face in the window of the playhouse. A determined look crossed his painted features before the tall boy strode over and yanked the plastic house up and off of you. You had crawled out from under it, staring up at the strong kid in amazement as he placed it down again. Then he turned to you, an odd expression on his face. It looked like he was trying not to smile and failing miserably. He reached one grey-and-white stained hand towards you and you took it, grateful for his help. He introduced himself in a voice unmarred by years of smoking marijuana and you returned the introduction, voice high and less raspy than it was now. The two of you were inseparable then.

That was why you had the key to his home. You were choking on tears again when you parked in front of his house, which was fairly large considering how much of a slacker Gamzee was. His father was simply an exceptional business tycoon in both the face paint, soda and circus industries. They had a very good amount of money. You were running up the steps and unlocking the door, waving towards his tall father, who looked up when you passed by the kitchen. "Upstairs," he replied gruffly, a worried furrow to his brow. He treated you like a second son, even if his nickname for you was 'the little Mexican shit'. You nodded and made your way to Gamzee's bedroom. The familiar smell of marijuana smoke calmed you a bit and you weren't even in your best friend's arms.

You knocked three times, paused, and then knocked once. He lazily shouted for you to come in, knowing it was you by the knocking code. You opened the door, a waft of leftover smoke from his earlier high wafting out of the room, and then promptly closed and locked it behind you. He took one look at your puffy, red eyes and quivering bottom lip and already knew what had happened. His arms were open and you were diving into them, snuggled against his bony figure and inhaling the scent of sugar, pot and a ménage of other scents that you recognized as his own. Gamzee didn't say a word, simply let you cry into his chest until you were coherent enough to tell him what happened. He listened with a serene expression, the only sign of his rage at your father noticeable in the way he clenched his hands in your shirt. When you were finished, he pushed you off of him and sat back against the headboard.

"Motherfucker, I fucking hate your dad. If it wasn't for your madre and her fine ass person, I'd be all up and fucking breaking his god damn neck with my holders all bare and shit." You shook your head at him and his annoyance turned to worry, long fingers carefully picking up your hand so he could inspect it. The side was bruised and a bit bloody. He tutted at you, moving to grab the first-aid kit he hid behind the bed. He calmly spoke to you while he bandaged up your hand, practiced fingers easily cleaning the wound. "Karbro, you know you is always motherfucking welcome in mine and the old goat's home," what an odd name for his father, though it fit with the long black hair and beard that curled at the end, "dad always says it's okay if you come and stay for just a motherfucking bit. Get the motherfuck outta that house for a bit, y'know?" He patted your, now bandaged, hand, serene expression returned to his face. You shake your head again, moving to lie against him and suck in that familiar, calming scent.

"Gamzee, I don't even know what I'm living for anymore," your voice is soft and you almost think he doesn't hear it until you are shoved back and staring into those odd colored violet orbs. They're filled with one part anger, one part pity and twenty parts sadness. His voice is rushed and soft and you can smell the pot on his breath. The closeness scares you a bit as you remember sixth grade and your first kiss with this bastard, who you had thought you loved more than you did, but the spark didn't come and he found his other half in a paraplegic Brazilian kid who had just moved to the country. You were happy for him then and you're even happier for him now, what with the promise rings they had exchanged on their fifth anniversary. You remember Gamzee loping towards you in school to show you the ring, voice excited and bubbly even with the high. There was no glazed look to his eyes right now, however, and you were frightened again.

"Don't you motherfucking say that, Karkat. You know all us fuckers are here for you. You got me and Tavbro, Eq and our kitty cat Nepeta. Don't forget about Spider Bitch, even though that sis is crazy, and our blind buddy, Terezi. What about Kan-sis and Ara-sis? You can't tell me that you wanna leave them or Sol-bro or Eridan or our fishy fucking heiress. You got us, motherfucker, and your madre. How much would your madre's heart be up and torn to bits if you was gone? Your dad might be a fucking asshole who deserves a clock to the motherfucker cross but you got the rest of us for you. We love you, motherfucker." You choke on a sob and push forward to lean your head against your friend's shoulder, a fresh bout of tears running down your cheeks now. Gamzee always knew just what to say to comfort you.

He held you until nine, when you had to get home. You had already missed dinner but your father was usually in bed by now, meaning you could talk to your mom. He waved goodbye to you and gave you an exceptionally hard squeeze. You looked back to see him miming the typing of a keyboard and you mimed it back until he sent you a little diamond shape with his fingers, which you eagerly returned. Diamonds, the suit you had first picked from him when he tried out a card trick on you. The ace of diamonds. It had been your guys' symbol ever since.

You walk in the house at 9:15, head down and fingers clenched tight around your backpack straps. You looked up to see your mother at the dining room table, filing away some documents from work. She had whipped her head up to stare at you, worry etched into her warm brown eyes and full lips. The frown that marred your skin tugged at your heartstrings. She was up in seconds, bustling towards you and wrapping you in a big hug, arms tight around your muscled chest. You envelop her in your arms as well, unable to cry anymore since you had exhausted your tears earlier at Gamzee's. She tuts at you for being so skinny, to which you laugh and tell her that it was just your metabolism. She's quick to tug you to the dining room, where you sit as she titters about the kitchen. She's got leftovers ready for you already and you're greeted by a bowl of chili and tortilla chips. You dig in; your madre sitting across from you and watching you eat with an unreadable expression. It's only when you've slurped up the final bits of your madre's cooking does she speak.

"Karkat, ¿dónde has estado? [Karkat, where have you been?]" Her tone is worried but she can see the familiar flash of hurt in your eyes. You recount the story for the second time that night but she stops you abruptly when you get to the part where your Dad wrote 'homophobia' on the board. She knew what happened next, she had been there for every time it had happened, ever since you were young. Her hand was on yours, comforting in its warmth and familiarity. You watch her smile sadly and shake her head, tears welling up in her eyes. "No es más que un año más, un pequeño, sólo un año más y luego te puedes ir. [It's only one more year, little one, only one more year and then you can go.]" You nod sadly, standing and making your way around to wrap your arms about her shoulders. You let a few tears fall from your eyes as you stoop and press a kiss to her forehead.

"Te quiero, mamá. Buenas noches, te veré en la mañana antes de irme. Y la madre? Gracias. [I love you, mother. Goodnight, I'll see you in the morning before I go. And mother? Thank you.]" You leave her with that, giving a little wave as you walk off to your room. You change into your pajamas and crawl under the covers, snuggled into the warmth of the cocoon you made for yourself every night. The tiredness of your eyes has you out in minutes, slipping from the warmth of your bed to the cool of your dreams.

Chased, you're being chased. You're running towards something, a back clad in red, a familiar head of hair that you don't really recognize. He turns towards you and it's your father. His disapproval of who you are suffocates you. You're in a sea of slurs, your father's voice shouting them at you. You drown in them, pulled under the waves of depression, anxiety, dragged down a pit of despair. You get stuck down there, alone and tired and cold. Friends try to reach you but they can never get their hand down far enough for you to grasp. Their faces are blurred and unrecognizable, though you've seen them thousands of times. You stay down there, tears running down your face until a hand you don't recognize, a hand with fingernails painted in caked-on, chipped black polish. A watch on its wrist, a broken record the face of the clock, a red gear set in the middle of the record. You don't understand it but it's right by your head, you can reach it, you just have to try! You barely manage to wrap your hand up in it before it is pulling you up, up, up! And then you're in strong arms, arms encasing you tight and he smells like apples, who do you know that smells like apples? You try to look at him but his face in blurred. Time moves in slow motion when you ask him who he is, the wind around the both of you stilling and your breath hitching in your throat. "Wake up," he mumbles and you're certain you know that voice but then your alarm clock goes off and all you have left of the night before is a whisper.


	5. Chapter 5

**being a good best friend is harder than you think**

You feel triumphant when you watch Karkat trudge towards you, a glare on his face with his thumbs hooked into his pockets. To stall for time, you busied yourself with taking off your tie and glasses (those were mostly for show, you had relatively good eyesight). The best thing about your schedule this year was the prep period at the end of the day, giving you an exceptional amount of goofing off time. Speaking of goofing off, you took the rag you had and cleaned the lenses of your glasses, noticing how fidgety your student was. He either wanted to get to class or away from you, maybe both. You further torment the kid by taking a large gulp of water, savoring the liquid as it soothed your sore throat and hydrated you. The bell rung shortly after, signaling to the both of you that Karkat was now late. The glare he sent you was almost distressing.

You turned to him to start speaking when you noticed him raising his hand to nibble at his fingernails, in turn allowing you to catch a glimpse of his perfectly manicured nails. They shone with grey and red stripes, bringing you to a conclusion that would work in your favor, if you were correct. You crack a joke and show him your own nails, upon which John had coated a metric fuck ton of nail polish. The messy manicure had your student laughing, just for a moment, and then his hand was over his mouth and those cheeks were colored like coffee. You returned the laughter and stood up, the giggles dying down as you noticed some odd things about your student. Things a teacher shouldn't really catalogue away for later, like you were doing now. His lashes were thick, long and dark, curling as he stared at you. His lips were thicker on the bottom and chapped all along. There was a bit of stubble on the sides of his face and his chin, surprisingly none on his upper lip. Those eyes were locked onto yours, intense in their gaze and you felt an involuntary shudder roll through you.

Calm down there, friend, this is a kid. _A kid who is twelve years younger than you_. You shake your head and reach down to ruffle his hair and _holy fuck is it soft, you are touching silk right now_. He almost backflips backwards to get away from your hand, which retreats as fast as it had gone forward. You take pity on the kid then, knowing he had done nothing wrong and that you were just trying to pick on him. You figured he had shit going on after class and it wasn't your right to keep him because you were being an asshole. He's shocked when you tell him he doesn't have detention and you go and grab your passes to write him one for his next class. You shiver a bit when you feel eyes on you, eyes tracing the curve of your spine, wide eyes that were colored like rust. You stall then, taking your time to print out each letter of Ms. Calliope's name and the digits of her room, giving Karkat all the time he needed to inspect your body. It gave you a little thrill, more than it should, to know you were attractive enough for a student to want to admire you. You wondered if he was happy with what he saw.

He looks guilty when you turn to him but the relief in his eyes prevents you from making a quip about his wandering eyes. He takes the pass from you and leaves your room with a stuttered 'goodbye' and you are left alone in your room. You sit down in your desk and pull out your phone, where purple text waits for you.

- tentacleTherapist [TT] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 12:45 –

TT: Good afternoon, my dear brother.  
TG: whatd you do now sis  
TT: Damn, you read me like a book.  
TG: i know when youve done some bad shit because you always hit me up with that same fucking sentence now spill what have you done  
TT: I may or may not have broken up with John.  
TG: finally realized you were in love with that one grim girl  
TT: grimAuxilatrix is her handle, brother dearest, and yes, I have come to terms with my attraction to her, despite not knowing what she looks like or where she lives. I have fallen for her wit and brevity, as well as the odd way she types in that jade green text.  
TG: youre so pussy whipped  
TT: And John doesn't have you wrapped around his 'non-homosexual' finger?  
TG: hey were fwbs and nothing more  
TT: The fact that you sleep with him whenever he asks you still convinces me that you and he are a couple.  
TG: were just there for each other when we need it most  
TG: so what we might have some good times every now and then  
TG: its purely platonic and we both know it  
TG: sometimes we gotta let out some steam  
TG: you know how bad it is to keep it bottled up  
TT: Dave, one of you is going to get severely hurt in the end. It's either going to be you, because John won't admit to his obvious attraction towards men, or it's going to be him, because you will inevitably find someone who loves you.  
TT: You're thirty and you still don't have a steady partner.  
TG: yeah well finding a decent guy that wants another guy is harder than youd think  
TG: i cant be like you all lucky and finding the love of your life online  
TG: when are you gonna tell her  
TT: I'm going to attempt and put that off for a good while. It would not be wise to immediately jump into a relationship while I'm still grieving over the last one.  
TG: youre grieving?  
TT: Not even a little bit.  
TT: I admit, I am a smidgeon curious about John's reaction. Or lack thereof.  
TG: lack of one?  
TT: whatd he say  
TT: Well aren't you curious.  
TT: He simply told me that he believed we'd been growing apart for the past month or so, since our half-year anniversary.  
TT: He also told me that he had suspected my sexuality about three months into our relationship, when he supposedly saw me eyeing up a waitress while I was investigating his lingering gaze on the waiter.  
TT: Who was blonde and had an angular chin, looking an awful lot like you.  
TG: so he can figure out your hankering for womanly thighs wrapped around your face  
TT: John has surprisingly soft and plaint thighs. You would know.  
TG: we havent gone farther than handies and blow jobs sis so can you stop  
TT: I really did not need to know that information.  
TG: but he cant figure out that he wants some serious dick  
TG: only five dollars for a foot long  
TT: Brother dearest, I did not know you were prostituting yourself!  
TT: And don't flatter yourself.  
TG: you walked in on me jerking it ONE TIME you didn't get a long enough look to tell  
TT: Bordering on eight inches, possibly a quarter inch more.  
TG: how did you know that  
TT: I have my ways, dear brother.  
TG: harley told you didnt she  
TT: Yes, she disclosed the information to me when she was whining about how you wouldn't let her mouth near your privates because you were 'afraid she would butcher it with her beaver teeth'. Wouldn't you have that same problem with John?  
TG: that was when we were fifteen and john had braces so hes good now  
TG: jade didnt get them so i was scared for my dick  
TG: people want this thing rose  
TT: People? Plural?  
TG: and that brings us to my next topic  
TG: new students  
TT: Do tell.  
TG: aight well there is a mothefuck ton of normals in most of my classes like they dont stand out at all not even a little bit  
TG: except for my sixth period where they stuck all the weirdos  
TG: theres all these crazy colors like rainbow bitches all up in my classroom up and down the rows  
TG: somebody call the skittles co i found the next rainbow  
TG: wheres my fucking leprechaun  
TG: that story is complete and utter bullshit by the way there are no leprechauns  
TG: anyway my sixth period has these kids get ready for a long ass list:  
TG: chunky irish girl with really long red hair whos name is aradia  
TG: then theres this wheelchair bound dude with a Mohawk pretty sure hes from like spain or something hes pretty dark that guys name is tavros  
TG: then theres this totally adorable little hispanic kid with these eyes the color of like rust or dried blood and shit hes got these cute bushy eyebrows and he frowns a lot and damn does that kid have a foul mouth and his hair is all strewn everywhere like permanent sex head that kids name is karkat  
TT: That is an awful lot of description. Care to explain?  
TG: tall asian kid who wears 3d glasses like a weirdo like what the fuck names sollux  
TT: Or not.  
TG: little girl who gets out a lot with this blue cat hat and she shrieks a lot her name is nepeta  
TG: then weve got this pretty black girl with dark green hair who draws a lot that ones name is kanaya  
TT: Kanaya?  
TG: not done yet sis then theres this crazy blind girl with red glasses and im pretty sure shes also irish just not from Ireland like the other girl and a fucking noose around her neck im pretty sure shed kill me in a second if i gave her the chance that one is terezi  
TG: got a girl who covers herself in blue and spider lace and wears a shit ton of bad girl and punk stuff like im sure she has daddy isssues or something that one is vriska  
TG: after that is this tall ass black kid with dreads and hes like seven feet tall and ripped plus he sweats a lot holy shit hes dating that one tiny girl either that or they are just really close his name is equius  
TG: then there is some crazy ass motherfucking juggalo in my class he has the paint and everything and he reeked of pot this guy was taller than that equius kid and im pretty sure hes banging the paraplegic or as close as he can get to banging him what with the other kids inability to feel anything below the waist  
TG: and now weve got the two heirs in my class  
TG: ive got the heir to ampora records  
TG: kids name is eridan and he dresses like a pretentious hipster douche bag  
TG: in my class  
TG: then theres this other pretty black chick who dresses with a ton of jewelry and uses fish puns a lot plus she wears goggles like what the fuck  
TG: that one  
TG: is the heiress to peixes productions  
TG: freaking the fuck out man  
TG: sis?  
TG: sis whats with the lack of response  
TG: sisssssss  
TG: roooose

- tentacleTherapist [TT] has ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] –

You stare at the Pesterchum window on your phone, one pale brow cocked as your sister's handle went to 'busy'. You wondered what you could have said to make her leave. Last thing she had typed back was 'Kanaya?' and that really didn't give you much. . Scrolling through your contacts, your eyes wander back to that familiar name. 'carcinoGeneticist'. You figured you could hit the guy up with a message, at least to let him know you were there if he wanted to talk. Didn't know the guy's name or age or location or even what he looked like. He just loved to talk to him. They didn't exchange personal information or too personal stories. No mention of occupation sullied your conversations. It was just nice to vent to someone. Even if they didn't know you.  
- turntechGodhead [TG] began pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] at 13:00 -  
TT: hey cutie can i touch the booty  
TT: nah im kidding I have no idea what you look like  
TT: anyway yeah just thought id send you a message even tho youre not online  
TT: do i have a story for you  
TT: hit me up when you get online babe  
- turntechGodhead [TG] ceased pestering carcinoGeneticist [CG] -

* * *

John is unaffected when you walk in the door, though he is a bit overly affectionate when you stop to give him a hug. He, surprisingly, presses a kiss to your cheek, which you ponder over while changing into street clothes. Swathed in extra-large sweats and a big tee-shirt, you trod back out to the living room, where your best friend is sat tapping away at the buttons on a PS3 controller. You flop down on the couch next to him, shades in place (fucking finally), and watch him furiously execute a shitty combo. You already know the answer but you ask it anyway, arm moving to sling around his shoulders and pull him over.  
"I heard from Rose. Are you okay, man?" He pauses the game and looks over at you, a goofy grin forming on his lips as he snuggles against your side. His hair, which he has long since tamed from how messy it was when you both were kids, suffocates you when he tucks his head into your neck. You cough out black locks and pull back a bit, silent but confused when he pushes the controller away and climbs onto your lap. The kid has always been smaller than you but the gap has closed over the years and now he stood at 5"9' and you at 6"4'. Definitely small enough to still fit in your lap, though you could think of someone else that would fit even better, someone who could only be just about 5'5". You shake thoughts of him out of your head when John, who has been silent this entire time, begins to rub at your shoulders with strong fingers. You relax a bit, letting out a happy sigh and tilting your head back so he could have a bit more room to massage. Your best friend had fucking magic fingers.  
You feel more than see him move closer and then his mouth is on your neck, marking you in plain sight. You normally don't mind; it would usually help with the girls in your class that would insist on flirting with you. But the thought of Karkat seeing the bruise, noticing it and knowing exactly why it was there, made your breath quicken and panic strike at your throat. John just took that as wordless praise, moving himself a bit closer so that his lips were at your ear. You do shudder for real when he tugs on the lobe, back stiffening as well as something else.  
"I'm okay, Dave. Maybe my ego is a bit hurt… Could you soothe it for me?" You know that innuendo well enough, John's voice seductive in both tone and cadence. You bring your hands up to grab at his hips, fingers digging into his cheeks as you try to think of an excuse, something that will prevent John from making a mistake. You gulp a bit when he removes your shades because, shit, that is your own shield against John, he's known you long enough to be able to gauge your reactions with just a glance into your expressive eyes. You lean your head down to press your nose into the other's neck, earning you a gasp and a wriggle on his part. The kid squirms even closer, hands tightening on your shoulders as he eagerly waits for your tongue and lips. You don't give him them, however, and instead bring your mouth up to his ear. This time, your voice is the one that is seductive, though you don't intend for it to be.  
"Not right now, babe," the pet name you only call him when the two of you are like this causes him to whimper, "but maybe later. We're having stir fry tonight, right? I wanna taste your cooking. And if we go for a round, you'll be too tired to. Okay?" Your voice has become that of a teacher or a father figure, chiding the man in your lap with certain sternness to your tone. As you suspected he would, the little masochist, he whimpers louder and nods. When he pulls back, he presses his lips to yours. You bite down harshly on his bottom one, feeling slightly sick when he moans in delight. And then he's gone, up to the kitchenette and you are escaping to your room, feeling queasy and like you had just betrayed someone. But how could you have betrayed anyone? You're not in any sort of serious relationship. You can't help but feel nauseous when you lay down on your bed, eyes closing as you try to sleep away the disgusting feeling in your stomach.

* * *

Rust eyes are locked onto yours. You're back in the classroom and there's Karkat, standing right in front of your desk. No one else but you and him are in the lecture hall. You look towards the door—there is no door?—and back to him. Your shades are off, as well as your glasses and tie. The short kid in front of your puts his hands on your desk and leans forward, getting into your personal space. You pull away to put some distance between the two of you, heart thudding louder in your chest when he moves around the desk. Then he's seated in your lap, much like John was, and his hands are at the buttons of your shirt. They make quick work of the fastenings, those painted nails lightly scratching at your pectorals when they duck into the fabric. You shudder and bring your hands up and grab at his arms—to push him away or pull him closer? Not even you know now.  
His chapped lips are at your ear now and his tongue is laving across the shell and you press him to you, hands falling to his ass and shit, you can feel yourself hardening slightly with his ministrations. Shit, this is a child! This kid, even though he's technically an adult and is at the age of consent, is still a _child_. But you can't find the will in yourself to push him away like you should. You want him there against you. Just as you go to move forward and press your lips to his neck and mark him as your own, his mouth opens. The hot breath on your ear has you screwing your eyes shut, breathing labored.  
"Wake up," he says and now it's not Karkat atop you but John, the classroom becoming your bedroom and your hands are on your best friend's ass, he's perched on you like a vixen. There's pride in his baby blues when he pulls away from you, triumphant as he moves off the bed and swaggers towards the kitchen. You stare after him, feeling absolutely disgusting now. You had just dreamt about one of your students. A kid you had barely known for a fucking _day_. You give a loud groan and press your face into your hands, erection throbbing between your legs. You couldn't believe yourself. You needed to get this sexual frustration out of you, along with the sick feeling of guilt that was overwhelming you.  
You chase after John and tug him back into the bedroom.

* * *

After the two of you had some well-needed fun, you had some time to lay back and think about your feelings. John was snuggled up against your side, tracing little patterns in your pectorals as his breathing returned to normal. You had your arms folded behind your head, trying to figure out what you were feeling now. That was the first time that John had actually allowed you to go all the way with him and, while it sounds way too much like what a teen would say, you were actually glad that he let you. You still felt guilty though, as if you were betraying someone. With the recent revelation that dream had given you, the only person you could think of that you might be betraying was Karkat. But he was a kid and you barely knew him. You couldn't possibly have anything for the guy, save for a slight attraction. What did it matter anyway? Not like you're going to become attached to him in any way, shape or form. You felt John shift and press his lips to your hickey-covered neck. You let out a soft sigh and move closer to him, at which he moves to give you a kiss. Just before his lips meet yours, you blink and see Karkat coming towards you with lips pursed.  
You lean in first and damn yourself the entire time John confesses to you. You accept anyway, knowing you're going to hurt him. You lose yourself in his touch and taste but you keep seeing rust instead of blue, coffee instead of cream, someone smaller.  
Karkat just wouldn't leave your mind, no matter how hard you tried.


	6. Chapter 6

**HATRED AND ATTRACTION GO HAND IN HAND, APPARENTLY.**

You wake up with a start, a sheen of sweat slick on your heaving chest. The sheets are balled up tight in your shaking hands as you attempt to catch your breath and remember why you were freaking out so badly. What could you have possibly dreamt about that would affect you this way? You squeezed your eyes shut and attempted to chase the remnants of your dream, whispers of your name said in a tone that was slightly familiar but not. You remembered blonde hair tickling your forehead, could almost see a red-clothed back, a strong arm outstretched to you… You could taste the dream; it was just within your grasp. But then Kankri pawed at your face, meowing unhappily. It was then that you realized your alarm had been buzzing for a while, screeching its obscene noise at you in an attempt to catch your attention. You groan when the dream scampered off, teasing you again with whispers in a voice you couldn't quite place. Kankri sauntered away in his 'holier-than-thou' way, leaving you annoyed and tired.

You turned off your alarm clock and pushed yourself out of bed, feeling a crick form in your neck. You tilted your head from side to side feeling the bones in your neck crack with the movement. You give a tiny groan for both the pain and the grimy feeling of your own skin. You hadn't taken a shower when you had gotten home the night before, meaning you'd showered about a day ago and the muck was clearly felt on your skin. You glance toward the clock, which read 5:10, and gauged how much time it would take you to shower and eat while still having time to pick up Gamzee. You catalogue how much time you'll take doing each thing while gathering your clothes and phone. After turning on the shower, you powered up your phone and waited for the water to heat up. When your phone rebooted all the way, slowly retrieving your messages as steam began to fill up the shower, it buzzed a few times to signal what you'd missed. There were a few notifications on Pesterchum, about five text messages and a few from Facebook. It was most likely Eridan and Feferi updating their statuses so you simply ignored that application and moved on to the next. You tapped on your messages and pulled up the first two, which were from Gamzee. One of them read 'HeY bRo :o)' in his odd quirk, which you had found annoying at first but was now slightly endearing. The next one was a simple 'GoOd NiGhT mOtHeRfUcKeR'. You realize you had forgotten to text him the night before.

You wondered if he would check your arms for scratches or cuts, like the last time you had expressed this sort of thing. You remembered the disappointment in his eyes the first time he saw your cuts. But it hadn't been just disappointment; there had also been sadness and worry. It wasn't like your father's gaze. Gamzee looked up to you, even though you were feet shorter than him. You absent mindedly trace your fingers along the twelve scars on your wrist, slowly counting them as you did so. _One, two, three, four, these are from four years before, five, six, seven, eight, all because of my father's hate, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, he said I'm going to Hell. _You ceased your counting when the steam filled up the room completely, making it hard to breathe with the heavy air. You place your phone down on the counter and hop into the shower.

-Insert break-

After a well-deserved shower and some sweet relief, you were dressed and seated at the table, phone in hand. In front of you were more leftovers from the night before, which you were picking at as you tapped through the rest of your notifications. Pesterchum had messages from most everyone in your group, save for those you weren't exactly the closest to. There were ones from Gamzee, Terezi, Nepeta, Kanaya, Sollux, Aradia and Eridan, plus a few from turntechGodhead. You sift through the ones from your friends first before you let yourself check turntechGodhead's, a smile forming on your lips when you first saw the red text pop up on screen. It had been sent to you when you were in seventh the day before but your phone had been off already, so you hadn't received a notification. His words, despite you not wanting them to, got to you and made you flush darkly. You opened up the chat box and tapped out a quick message, just to let him know you were okay and that you had received his pester.

- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 5:35 –-

CG: I HATE YOU.  
CG: BUT I'M HERE NOW, YOU SHIT-EATING DIPWAD.  
CG: YOU'LL HAVE TO TAKE ME OUT ON A DATE BEFORE I'LL EVEN CONSIDER LETTING YOU ANYWHERE NEAR MY PLUSH REAR.  
CG: AND JUST SO YOU DON'T NEAR EXPLODE YOUR RETARDED HIPSTER BRAIN WITH DISGUSTING GLEE, YES, THAT WAS A RHYME AND, YES, IT WAS INTENTIONAL.  
CG: I'LL TALK TO YOU WHEN YOU GET BACK ONLINE, GODHEAD.

- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG] –-

You pocket your phone so you're not distracted as you finish up your food and rush out the door, eager to get to class and see your friends. You drive the way to Gamzee's in silence, music tinkling out of your decrepit radio to fill the stale interior of your car with its sound. There's a lot on your mind right now but, out of all of your problems, you decide to settle on this odd attraction you had to your teacher. Seriously? Out of all the people you could possibly find hot, it had to be Mr. Strider. Even though he'd been nice to you after class, there was a feeling in your stomach that he was going to make your life at school a living Hell. Your father had already covered that at home. But there was a part of you that hoped Mr. Strider would be, at the least, civil towards you. He had already picked you out as a fucking target but maybe he'd relent a bit. Maybe. You weren't sure of what would happen in the future but you were sure of the fact that the Strider wasn't going to be leaving your mind anytime soon. Hopefully this would just be attraction and wouldn't escalate into a crush because, damn it, that is the last thing you need.  
You pull up to Gamzee's house and honk the horn, to which Gamzee comes loping out of the door. He turns around and waves goodbye to his father, who is stood in the doorway with a joint between his lips (all of the Makaras, except for Gamzee's mother, had taken a liking to weed. The only one that you knew that smoked pot regularly was Gamzee; his father must have had a rough day or lost some sales.) You waved towards the old goat, to which he flipped you off and trudged back inside. Hey, it was better than your dad. You'd take Gamzee's father over your own any day.  
Speaking of him, he was in the passenger seat and was tugging on your arm, which was covered with your sleeve. He rolled up the fabric and began to count out each scar, saying the numbers in a hushed tone. You watched him with a bored expression until he said twelve, nodding to himself as he released your arm. You sat back in your seat and waited for him to buckle up before putting your foot to the gas and making your way to your school.  
Routine as always, your group of friends were in the cafeteria already. Gamzee split from you when he spotted his Brazilian boyfriend, who you gave a wave. But he was wrapped up in big arms and grey-painted lips so he didn't notice your greeting. You sigh and look around your group of friends, glaring a bit at all of their happy couple shit. Nepeta and Equius, together since first grade and romantically involved since Nepeta had gained a sex drive. You were almost positive that the ring on her finger with a blue stone set in it was an engagement ring but Nep had assured you that it was only Equius' "purromise"! Sickeningly sweet but you were happy for those two, especially since Nepeta had once expressed feelings towards you that you had to politely decline. Terezi and Vriska had been best friends since second grade, when Vriska had stolen Terezi's chalk and the little red-headed menace had bitten her. Just like you and Gamzee, they had been inseparable. After you and Terezi had dated for exactly a month, the spider queen had swept up your ex in a hurry. The day they'd walked into school, in eighth grade, holding hands and grinning, had been the day Vriska began to use you as a target. She couldn't touch Tavros anymore, what with Gamzee casting a fucking shield of 'fuck with him and I'll castrate you' around the paraplegic. So why not choose the next most pitiful thing in the group? The gay Mexican madre's boy with an overly-religious father. You fucking hated the Serkets.

Your careful eye moved on from the two girls, who were locked in a passionate embrace, to Sollux and Aradia. They were silent, Aradia's head resting on her Asian boyfriend's shoulder and Sollux stroking her red locks. Out of all of your friends, you honestly believed that these two were the most in love. Aradia had been severely depressed in seventh grade, though you'd all known of her mental problems since third, and had tried to commit suicide. When Sollux heard, he had ran out of school and all the way down to hospital, even though the building was three miles away. You remember him and Aradia coming backthree days later, the Irish girl's arms bandaged up and hand in Sollux's. God, you'd been so happy for them that day. And they were still so in love with one another, so in love that they didn't even need to fill silence between them. You wanted that badly, so badly. You smiled when Sollux looked over to you and he returned the expression before turning back to his chubby girlfriend. You sat down next to your motherly friend, glancing towards her and letting yourself gauge her expression as she stared at her phone.  
Her pretty lips were set in a scowl and her eyes were filled with distress. The way her plucked brows were furrowed made you worry about her. She would have said something if it was too much for her, however, so you didn't speak up and simply turned away from her. Knowing how Kanaya had been texting that one girl, it was probably something with her. Rose was her name, if you remembered correctly. You hoped that everything was alright with them as you turned your attention to the two heirs of your group.  
Eridan was sat braiding Feferi's kinky hair, which was straight for once, into dreadlocks. She'd apparently liked how Equius' hair had looked the day before and demanded Eridan do hers that way. Sometimes, you felt sorry for the heir to Ampora records. But, now and again, you remembered how much of a dick he'd been when you were kids. You were glad he'd stopped with his annoying act but there were times when his self-loathing and pity shone through and you wished you didn't feel as bad for him but you did. He glanced your way and gave you a curt nod as he used his painted nails to comb through the younger heiress' knots and tangles, half of her head already done in dreads. Feferi gushed over the parts that were already done, cooing and complimenting her gay best friend. At least, you were pretty sure he was gay. He hadn't come out but he'd dated a plethora of guys, one of which you were sure was his own brother but he assured you that him and Cronus weren't related. (The similarities were too striking; you still had your doubts.)  
Out of all of you, you and Feferi were the only ones that were single. You knew Feferi's mother wouldn't allow her to date because of her heir status; the tabloids would go nuts. But you? You had no excuse not to date. You just couldn't find someone that would settle for you. There was a part of you that believed you'd never find that guy. Sure, it made you feel sick to your stomach and lonely and like you were a piece of shit but you could deal with being alone. You'd been alone most of your life, what was wrong with being alone the rest of it?  
You couldn't wallow in self-deprecating thoughts any longer. The bell rang and yanked you from that train of thought that was about to derail and kill everyone on board. Gamzee tapped your shoulder and you looked up at him, the clown's lip makeup smeared off to show his tan skin underneath. You smiled and he waggled his eyebrows as he handed you your backpack. Tavros was next to him, hands folded in his lap and lips covered in grey. Those dark cheeks of his were even darker than usual, likely from lack of air and embarrassment. You stood and followed the pair down the hall before Tavros had to split for his class and you and Gamzee left for yours. The school day had begun and routine had set in.

-Insert Break-

You told yourself you weren't looking forward to sixth period, no, not at all. You also told yourself that you weren't fixing your hair and clothes in the mirror for Mr. Strider. And you really weren't making sure there was nothing in your teeth and that your nails were perfect because your teacher was hot. No, you were doing none of these things in the bathroom during lunch. There wasn't a skip in your step when you all walked down to sixth period and you didn't feel a thrill roll through you when you walked in the door of the classroom and Mr. Strider turned to look at you all, a smile on his lips. Those crimson eyes bore into you and you weren't feeling your stomach flip-flop and your heart beat faster, no, no you weren't.  
Who the fuck were you kidding, you were doing all of those things.  
You moved to your seat and sat down, hands shaking a bit when Mr. Strider's eyes wouldn't leave you. Yours wouldn't leave him either, gaze raking over his muscled form and across his broad chest and up his marked neck. Wait. Marked? Marked neck? There, upon Mr. Strider's pale neck, were hickeys galore. A plethora of love bites, evidence of someone claiming him as their own, were splattered across his neck. Your stomach didn't drop out from under you, you didn't feel betrayed, you didn't hate him for that, no, you couldn't have because this was only the second day you'd known him, there was no way you liked Mr. Strider and there was no reason for you to feel as though he'd ripped out all of your intestines and stomped on them in front of you.  
You dropped your gaze from him, cheeks heating up as the extent of your school-boy crush hit you. No, this is what you got for feeling as though you could have someone so perfect, that you even had a chance at it. This was your punishment for being a homosexual kid who was attracted to older men. This was your repentance for being a demon-spawn of Satan. Your father was right, he was always right. You buried your head into folded arms, blocking out the sound around you and refusing to lift it until Mr. Strider called on you.  
You pull your head up and glare at him, putting as much hate behind your gaze as you could. He looks taken aback for a moment before his delectable-looking mouth opens and that sinful treble voice is washing over you and melting your anger away. That is, until you glance down at his neck and your entire being despises his perfection.  
"Mr. Vantas, do you have your track for us to listen to today?" Great, just what you need. Now, not only do you feel betrayed and disgusting and worthless but you have a bad grade to go with those feelings! To accentuate them! You snarl out a 'no' and duck your head back into the safety of your arms. He's silent for moments and you hope he's just going to move on but that's too easy, no, he just had to make this difficult for you.  
"Yeah, no, Karkat, that ain'tgonna fly with me. Detention after school, be here or I'm putting an F in the grade book." You don't protest with him this time, though you curse his name to the high heavens in your head, and he moves on to the next student. You block out the sound for the rest of the period and stay broken down even when you walk to seventh. Hate him, you hate him! But, god, he couldn't be more attractive and you don't want to want him, you don't! You can't help but feel some sort of insane attraction towards him. Something in you just wants to be owned by him and to own him. You want to mark him on his neck, on his chest, to place your claim and have him acknowledge that he is yours. And you want to be his. You want him to bite and lick at your tan skin until you're bruised in places even you don't think you could be bruised in. Fucking attraction, sinful relationships entice you with their wrongness. Obviously, it's in defiance to your father. Anything to make your father regret his treatment of you is something you'd do. What a twisted child you are, wanting to please your father and disgust him at the same time. It's the same way you feel towards Mr. Strider right now.  
It's the way you feel when you storm into his room and detention begins.


	7. Chapter 7

You wake up feeling sore and sorry for yourself. With a start, you sit up in bed and stare at the wall, the events of the night before flooding into you. You groan as you realize you had slept with John while imagining it was your student, your short and shouty student that was a good twelve years younger than you. When he was born, you were entering middle school. The thought does not do anything to the attraction you feel towards him but it does snap everything into perspective, like a nice slap in the face. You push thoughts of Karkat and John out of your mind and go about your daily routine.

John left you another note, this one only slightly more raunchy than the last, reading, "dave! last night was hot and just what i needed to get over rose! i'll be home at nine, i'm going to call up jade and see if she has any friends for me! –EB". You sigh in relief, glad the friendship between you two is just that and nothing more. So what if you think of someone else? John sure isn't thinking of you when you're inside him, if this note is any indication. As long as you don't fuck up in bed and shout Karkat instead of John, you'll be fine.

Wait, no, no you won't be because you've got a raging boner for one of your students. There's that problem, rearing its head and dampening your spirits. You groan into your coffee as you walk out to your car, trying to ignore how you're looking forward to sixth period and how you desperately want to see him and how wrong all of this is. But ignoring a problem doesn't make it go away. Driving to school is dangerous with how distracted by your thoughts you are but you make it to the parking lot and into your classroom without crashing into anyone, save a freshman in your second period class who was asking you about music. You didn't reply to her, too consumed by your inner musings to answer who you liked more, Nikki Minaj or Alicia Keys. She leaves you alone when she sees that you were busy and you make it to your room shortly afterwards.

Classes go by and you fall into familiarity. It's nice to listen to the songs your students bring in and you only have to send two kids up to the dean because their songs were only expletives. You end up laughing most of your classes and sharing the song that you connect with in every single class. That song is 'Curbside Prophet' by Jason Mraz. Most of the students compliment you on it, especially when you got up there with the karaoke version and rapped the entire thing for third. Students, both horrified and impressed, give you props on the song as they left. You tell yourself that you'll do the same thing for sixth but not because you want to impress Karkat, no, that's not it at all.

Yes it is.

You talk to Jade over the phone during lunch, laughing with her as you describe what had happened that day. She tells you about how it is in Japan and how she's researching a few formulas that can stimulate nerves that have been dead for years! She says there's a test subject in the town you live in that is going to get the procedure. He's relatively young, only about sixteen or seventeen, but he's been paralyzed since age six. It's a dangerous procedure and he has to be prepared a month beforehand. You tell her that there's a kid in your class that's about that age and is in a wheelchair. She, with a giggle, tells you that that is probably him. You make a mental note to ask Tavros about it when she hangs up with a shriek of, "no! Not that chemical, you dipshit!" You hear the bell wail and sit up straighter at your desk, turning to stare at the door as you wait for your class to trickle in. You're not looking for a mop of black hair and tan skin, nope. Your heart rate does not increase tenfold at the sight of the door opening. And you are so not staring at Karkat as he walks up the steps to his seat. Even though you aren't doing any of these things, you still see the way his eyes slide to your neck.

You definitely see his eyes widen and his skin pale a bit, before flushing dark and averting his rust orbs. Words die in your throat as a sick feeling of dread trickles down into your stomach. A chill cools your insides with fear as you watch Karkat put his head down into his arms. You stutter when you call Kanaya down to play her song, numb as you keep your eyes on the little senior with his head down. You go through the motions but you don't really listen. You don't notice the beat, the lyrics, the songs. All you can pay attention to is your mistake and how you have sincerely fucked everything up. Really, you haven't done something this bad since college, when you got piss drunk and slept with your brother. The both of you had sworn to never speak of it again, obviously, but you still got that same feeling of dread, the one that is freezing your nerves right now.

When you call on Karkat, he raises his head and your breath catches in your throat. His eyes are red-rimmed, though you can't tell if it's from lack of sleep or tears, and he tells you he doesn't have his assignment. You're silent for a bit before telling him that he has detention after school. He doesn't protest against you and puts his head back down, forcing you to move along. When the bell does ring and your students leave, you sit down at your desk and take in shuddering breaths. Okay, your student is going to be coming in after class. And you'd really had no idea how you felt about that. It wasn't like you were going to tell him all about yourself and how it was just comforting your buddy, who'd been dumped. That wasn't proper for a student-teacher relationship. Hell, that wasn't proper for any relationship. You bite at your lip in nervousness, unable to quell the queasy feeling of betrayal that wells up in you when you hear the hinges of the door swing open. You turn to look at the boy who walked in, his thick brows pulled together and his lips set in a scowl. You aren't sure what to say, what to do, so he does something first.

You numbly watch as he walks to his normal seat and sits down. That's all he does; sits there without a smile on his face and without a word in your direction. You don't have any words for him either, so you aren't one to comment on his silence. You turn your gaze to your computer, where Pesterchum is open, and your brows draw together. There, onscreen, is a message from Carcino. You glance up towards Karkat, where he's hidden in the desk with his hood up and his backpack in front of him. You don't how to punish him for something when he's so upset in the first place. You simply don't. Let him stay in your room for a bit, you think that that is punishment enough. You turn back to your computer, where the Pesterchum window blinks incessantly at you. There are another few messages, all of them long and filled with curse words. The familiarity, the fact that you can deal with this sort of thing, brings a smile to your face. God, you'd actually missed the few days without a word from your crude Internet friend. Carefully, almost reverently, your fingers settle on your keyboard and you begin to type.

- carcinoGeneticist [CG] began pestering turntechGodhead [TG] at 13:35 –-  
CG: HELLO, MY INSANE HIPSTER DOUCHEBAG INTERNET-DWELLING LIFEFORM THAT I BEGRUDGINGLY REFER TO AS MY "FRIEND".  
CG: I HAPPEN TO BE STUCK IN FUCKING DETENTION WITH MY PRICK OF A TEACHER AND I'M GOING TO EXPLAIN TO YOU THE DISGUSTING REASON WHY I'M IN SUCH A FUCKING PREDICAMENT.  
CG: I WALK INTO CLASS TODAY ALL HAPPY AND HUNKY DORY, FUCKING FANTASTIC, WALKING ON GOD DAMN SUNSHINE ECSTATIC, LIKE NOTHING COULD BRING ME DOWN.  
CG: THE REASON FOR SUCH A VOMIT-INDUCING BEHAVIOR IS THAT MY TEACHER, DESPITE HIS UTTER DOUCHITUDE, IS A COMPLETE HUNK. SO MUCH SO THAT I WAS LOOKING FORWARD TO LANDING EYES ON HIS FUCKING FANTASTIC BODY. Y'KNOW, UNTIL I CAUGHT SIGHT OF *THAT*.  
CG: A FUCKING HICKEY. A MOTHERFUCKING *HICKEY* ON HIS NECK.  
CG: NOW, I KNOW WHAT YOU'RE THINKING. "carcino why the hell are you freaking out over a fucking hickey dude its not like you were dating your teacher right"  
CG: AND I WOULD HAVE TO SAY YES, YOU'RE CORRECT, I'M NOT DATING OR BONING MY TEACHER, DESPITE HOW MUCH I MIGHT WANT TO.  
CG: BUT I STILL SOMEHOW FELT LIKE A FUCKING DISGUSTING PIECE OF SHIT, UNWANTED AS MY WEIRDLY FISHY FRIEND CALIGULUS.  
CG: BUT I'M GETTING OFF TOPIC HERE.  
CG: WE HAD AN ASSIGNMENT TODAY AND I FORGOT TO BRING IT, DIDN'T EVEN OFFER ME AN ALTERNATIVE OR ANYTHING SO I ENDED UP BEING PUT INTO DETENTION.  
TG: wow doesnt that sound scarily similar to my current situation  
CG: WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU GOING ON ABOUT NOW, GODHEAD.  
TG: alright im gonna break tradition here and tell you what i work as  
TG: because even if i dont its gonna take you two seconds to realize it when i start telling my story  
TG: so im a music appreciation teacher right and this one kid in my class doesnt bring his assignment so i gave him detention  
TG: hes right in front of me and hes got his head down but i dont have a fucking clue what to do now because hes a sweet kid and hes insanely cute  
TG: i know what youre gonna say carcino "GODHEAD YOURE SUCH A FUCKING PEDOPHILE EW"  
TG: i know i got your quirk wrong it was for ironic purposes  
TG: but yeah thats my predicament here  
- carcinoGeneticist [CG] blocked turntechGodhead [TG] –-

What the fuck. That was the weirdest thing you've seen carcino do and you've known the kid for years, talked to him for just as long. You glance up at Karkat to see him staring at you with wide eyes, the orbs filled with something akin to fear. You tilt your head a bit, lips pursed in confusion as you wait for him to say something. His mouth is hanging open, gaping like a fish, and you have to stifle a small laugh at the sight. There's something hilarious about him looking like that. But all hilarity about the situation leaves when he speaks, finally, his voice a croak of despair that leaves your heart thudding against your ribcage with all the force of a raging bull.

"Godhead?"


	8. Chapter 8

The last thing you had expected to happen today was that. Hell, you expected Mr. Strider to kiss you breathless more than this fucking revelation. But the word that left your lips has the handsome face you love to look at turning into a look of mortification and surprise. His crimson orbs widened enough to practically bulge out of his sockets and his mouth dropped open to mirror your own gape. Yep. You had met the real life turntechGodhead and he was your fucking high school music appreciation teacher.

What the actual fuck, universe.

He echoes your confusion with his own whispered version of your handle and you just about scream. Any doubts you might have had before are completely decimated by that, the word being just enough to confirm your suspicions. You shove yourself away from the desk and grab your backpack, hood up and face hidden from your teacher's gaze. You can't bear to look at him right now. There is absolutely no way you can stomach this, what with all of the shit you're dealing with at the moment. You need to do something, to talk to Gamzee or to go home to your mother or something other than stay there in the awkward classroom. Mr. Strider doesn't stop you when you bolt from the room like a scared doe. Part of you wishes he had said anything to stop you, to show he wanted to talk about this. But he didn't and now you're left running to your car, dodging students in the hallway and trying to comprehend your situation.

Godhead knew all about you and your life. He'd been there for you to vent to for your entire high school career and he had been at said school that entire time. You had told him about your Catholic father, your madre, had spoke of your friends and gushed over movies. He knew your music taste and rather cheesy love for romantic comedies. Godhead was cognizant of almost everything about you, except for your life. Well, until now. He was too close to you now and you felt the need to shove him away, to keep him from invading your life anymore than he already had. You really did not like it when people got that close to you, save for Gamzee but that stoner was a different story. Speaking of your best friend, you desperately needed to speak to him. That was your destination when you climbed into your old pick-up and screeched out of the parking lot. After breaking many a law and almost running over an idiot rollerblading across the street, you were parked in front of your best friend's house. Even if he wasn't home yet, you could bury yourself in the familiarity of his sheets and breathe in his scent. You needed something to hold you down to Earth right now and Gamzee always did the trick, despite he himself being higher than the fucking stratosphere normally.

Turns out he was not home. Neither was his father but, on the kitchen table, was a note next to a plate of brownies (of which you knew the ingredients). Scrawled in messy, loopy handwriting was Gamzee's promise that he'd be home soon and for his "bEsTfUcKiNgFrIeNdToChIlLoUt :o)". You knew what that meant and, though you really didn't condone drug use, you needed something just to calm down. Stupid Gamzee and his awfully accurate way of knowing how you felt before you felt it. You grab up the plate of brownies and begin walking upstairs, sniffing the chocolate treats with a grimace.

This wouldn't be the first time you'd gotten high. Gamzee was strangely influential in his recreational use of drugs. Most of the time, however, you were in the company of someone who was used to flying. Now, you would only be in your own presence. The thought of getting high alone was a little disconcerting but, hey, you were going to freak out either way, why not worry about the size of your hand and not your teacher? You kick the door of Gamzee's room closed behind you, the scent of cloves and incense permeating the insides of the familiar bedroom invading your nostrils. You sigh contentedly and move to lay down in his bed, eyeing the plate of brownies with a wary eye. It was now or never. You reach over and take one cocoa delicacy and sink your teeth in.

- insert break -

"You don't get it, man," you slur as Gamzee pets your hair, long fingers carding through your messy black locks as he listens to your complaints. He'd gotten home about a half-hour ago and you'd probably eaten more brownies than you should have, the plate was almost empty, but you weren't freaking out. Well, not anymore. After a momentary scare that the police would show up and you would be dragged to jail—Gamzee calmed you down right when he got home—you were back to just complaining in an intoxicated voice. Gamzee's face swirls above you and you blink the spots out of your eyes, his angular cheeks ceasing their vibrating as he comes back into focus. You snarl softly and reach up, lazy fingers brushing across his cheeks as you pull him down. You hug him close to you, listening to him chortle, the raspy laughter dissolving into a cough. He was going to have smoker's lung or something. You vaguely wondered what a smoker's lung even looked like. Did it detach from the body and smoke a dozen packs a day to get its fix? The thought process derails you from your initial complaining and you're left laid across Gamzee's lap while you contemplate how a smoker's lung could even support itself and its smoker lung children. Gamzee laughs at your expression of determination but you're too busy thinking to notice why he's laughing. When you finally pull yourself from your disoriented mind, Gamzee has the last brownie in his hand.

"Those things are delicious," you mumble as your stoner friend throws his head back and swallows the entire thing. Your bloodshot eyes follow his Adam's apple with the movement and you compare it to Mr. Strider's neck. "Gamzee, what if… Like, what if it… I don't know." You place your hands on top of your chest and listen to his rugged voice as his hand returns to your hair, digits carding through your locks again. "Motherfucker," he says calmly, as if it is perfectly natural to start a sentence like that, which you suppose it is, "I think Mr. Strider is going through the same fucking problem, you dig?" You stare at him incredulously, brows furrowing while you attempt to imagine Mr. Strider having feelings for you. But, of course, that wasn't what Gamzee was referring to. "His Internet motherfucker is all up and being his fucking student, isn't that some weird shit? He's probably going through the same shit." You turn your head to stare at the wall, which began to swirl with colors. Despite the paint splatters that decorated the wallpaper, every color transformed into reds, hues and shades of the color that congealed into eyes framed by thin blonde lashes. You squeeze your own rust ones shut only to have crimson explode behind your lids. He's always there and you hate it. Two days was not enough time to develop feelings for someone. Right?

Gamzee was still talking the entire time, though all his words came out tinged in blood. You didn't understand half of the shit he was talking about, too focused on the color that permeated your being. Red, so much of it, you wanted every single shade. You watch your best friend gesticulate lethargically, lithe fingers flicking in the direction of the wall. He hands you your phone and you stare at the item for a long time, wondering what he wanted you to do. He took it from you and tapped in your passcode, returning it to your hands when Pesterchum was open. Your most recent conversation was open and the sight of the red text was enough to get you to sluggishly tap out a message.

- carcinoGeneticist [CG] unblocked turntechGodhead [TG] –-

CG: TELL EM IM STUPID.  
CG: PELASE I JUST NED YOU TO.  
TG: are you drunk or something  
TG: ill have to call the cops if you are kid sorry  
CG: NO AT BRONEIS.  
TG: oh so youre just higher than a kite gotcha  
TG: im not actually going to call the cops so dont freak out  
TG: actually dont freak out at all because i have some things to say  
TG: i admitted to finding you attractive before you decided to block me  
TG: and i dont want you to think im some pervy teacher that preys on his students like fuck no this aint something i get off on  
TG: well not usually but you get what i mean  
TG: what im trying to say here is please dont take me seriously  
CG: YOU MAEK ME FEL BEUTIFAL  
TG: what  
CG: M DAD MAEKS ME FEEL UGYL  
CG: I M SORY

- carcinoGeneticist [CG] ceased pestering turntechGodhead [TG]—-

You have no idea what you just did but you're pretty sure you fucked something up. Gamzee takes the phone from you with a coo, speaking calmly as he explains that you're sleeping over for the night. You don't have the strength or the will to complain and you simply nod in understanding. He leaves you on the bed to go to his closet and retrieve some clothes that you leave over here, just in case. You take the pajamas from him, sluggishly changing into them. Soon afterwards, you're cuddling against one of his pillows and breathing in the imbedded scent of cloves and spices. He lounges against his own pile of pillows, humming softly as his red-rimmed eyes flick along the ceiling, as if he's counting the amount of bumps in the mottled surface. You fall asleep to the sound of his easy breathing and delve into a land of crimson-colored dreams.


End file.
